tttwiceeluvrr

[tttwiceeluvrr]

this GAGGGGGG

TWICE for Osaka Ojo Gang Mega Crew Mission (WSWF)

[tttwiceeluvrr]

FALLING LIKE SNOW, RETURNING LIKE WAVES, ALWAYS BACK TO YOU. — MINATOZAKI SANA

❝ and now you know why you never texted her back. ❞

synopsis — the air still feels colder, it's been three years already. but, what happens when you come to the place where she is? this time it's snowfall and not the waves, but, you still fall. notice — angst with a happy ending. unrequited love, miscommunication, implied sabotage, idolxnon-idol, written with realism, metaphors, and a slow and painful unravelling love story. pairing — minatozaki sana x reader ! disclaimer ! this is a work of fiction created purely for entertainment purposes. all events are fictional. while this story may feature public figures (e.g., sana from twice), it is not meant to reflect their real thoughts, actions, or relationships. please remember: nothing depicted in this story actually happened.

there weren’t any waves tonight.

no crashing surf. no salt in the air. just snow—falling quiet and slow, melting where it touched the balcony railing. the sky above was a pale smear of gray, the city below wrapped in stillness. it wasn’t warm here. not even close.

you wrapped your hands around the mug eunji gave you and didn’t say much. the heat from the tea barely reached your fingers.

eunji stood beside you in her thick knit sweater, elbows tucked on the ledge, her breath fogging into the cold. “it’s weird, right?” she said softly. “i always forget how quiet it gets when it snows.”

you nodded once, eyes fixed on the empty street below.

no gulls. no sandals on pavement. no haze of summer climbing up your arms. just winter settling deep into your coat. and you realized

you missed the waves.

“it’s not like back then,” eunji said, almost smiling. “but… welcome back, anyway.”

you glanced over, finally. she was gazing at you with that look she always used to give you after class, like you were still eighteen and she’d never really let go of that version of you. the one who used to skip lectures to take her to the beach. the one who waited on the porch for someone else, but still smiled when it was her.

you nodded again. “thanks.”

she watched your face for a second longer before looking down at the city—sprawled wide and glittering beneath the snow.

seoul.

you hadn’t planned to come back. not really. it just… happened. a break. a reset. just two weeks, you told yourself. just something different. just long enough to forget the shape of her name when you whispered it to the sea.

but the waves weren’t here.

just snow.

and eunji, still beside you.

----

you were sitting on the guest bed half-dressed, half-scrolling through your phone, when something slipped out from between your clothes. a photo. bent edges, too-bright colors, definitely planted by keoni.

you stared at it for a second. yeah. that trip. the one before everything cracked open. before she left. before you stopped waiting by the ocean and started pretending you were fine.

a knock came at the door. gentle. careful.

“hey,” eunji called, voice muffled. “you wanna eat out tonight? there’s a place i used to love. not too far.”

you set the photo down on the pillow, face down. “sure,” you said, standing slowly. “let me grab my coat.”

by the time you stepped outside, seoul had shifted. it was always moving, never still—lanterns glowing over storefronts, snow clinging to the curbs, steam rising from food carts like smoke from a dream.

eunji took you somewhere small and tucked between older buildings. warm inside. smelled like chili paste and grilled meat and soup still bubbling in clay pots. you sat across from her, half-listening, half-scrolling. it was comfortable.

then the noise hit—laughter too loud from a table near the back. high-pitched. bubbly. a girl’s voice calling out something in a dialect you didn’t catch.

you blinked. “sorry, i need to use the bathroom real quick.”

you made your way past the hostess stand, turned a corner too quick, and bumped into someone going the opposite way. solid hit. shoulder to shoulder.

“sorry,” you said quickly, barely looking up and just leaving not having time because if you looked more you'd probably piss yourself infront of them. “my bad—sorry.”

outside, sana stood still for a breath. her brows drawn together, her hand still slightly raised like she meant to stop you.

“…weird,” she murmured while returning to their table.

“what is?” jihyo asked as sana sat back down.

sana tilted her head, brushing her hair from her cheek. “i think i just ran into someone i used to know.”

“you say that in every city,” nayeon said, rolling her eyes. “maybe it’s just your soul recognizing other famous souls.”

“no,” sana said, quieter. “this one felt… familiar.”

jihyo gave her a long look, but sana just shook her head, waving it off. “nothing. i’m fine. are we ready to go?”

they stood, coats in hand, talk already shifting to something else. but sana glanced once more toward the hallway before following them out.

you came back to your table a few minutes later. the noise had died down. just quiet chatter and plates being cleared. eunji poured you tea like nothing had happened.

you smiled faintly, glancing out the window. the snow was still falling. soft. unbothered. beautiful.

you didn’t know why your chest felt tight.

but you smiled anyway.

-----

you should’ve said no.

you were already halfway to the studio when it hit — the feeling you’d been ignoring all morning. that slow, creeping dread in your chest that had nothing to do with traffic and everything to do with how easily you’d said sure, i’ll come help. you thought it was just a favor. you thought eunji needed an extra hand. you thought she’d meant it the way old friends mean it — practical, casual.

the studio smelled like damp wires and instant coffee. someone’s leftover tteokbokki still clung to the air, sharp and sweet and cloying. you lingered near the door, arms folded, head ducked low. just another helping hand, no name, no label. someone asked you to move lighting equipment. another passed you cables. no one knew who you were, right?

you leaned against a wall, pretending not to exist. sleeves rolled up, a box of cables still in your hands because someone asked and you didn’t know how to say no. you weren’t sure how long you’d been standing there, but the knot in your throat had been present since the moment someone said, “eunji’s partner’s here!” and no one corrected them.

you caught her smirk from across the room. just for a second — the way her lip twitched up and then down again, feigned annoyance splashed with something else. something like satisfaction. she raised a brow as if to say, play along, and you did. stupidly. like you always did.

you didn’t even have time to respond before you felt it. arms wrapped tight around your middle. a full hug. not brief, not subtle. not a greeting, not exactly.

you froze. eunji pulled back and laughed against your shoulder like it was an old joke only you two knew. “what? no hug back?”

you smiled. thin. held the tension in your arms. and when she turned to yell something over her shoulder, you slipped your jacket off and folded it in your hands like it was nothing. like the fabric hadn’t just absorbed her perfume.

you didn’t want to smell like her.

“wah, i can see why eunji liked you..” someone said, walking by with a garment bag slung over one shoulder. they gave you a toe-to-head look.

you nodded once. short, tight smile. no words. too scared to embarrass her. too tired to lie. too hopeful that maybe — maybe this didn’t mean anything. eunji didn’t stop the others either. just rolled her eyes, not harshly — more like letting them have their fun. she even laughed when one stylist asked if you were picking her up for a date or just doing free labor out of love.

you wiped your palms on your jeans when no one was looking.

you drove with one hand on the wheel and the other digging faint half-moons into your thigh. the car heater was on low. your jacket sat balled up in the backseat.

hyeri flopped into the back like a sunbeam given legs. “thank you for the ride!” she beamed, fastened her seatbelt with a little grunt, then poked her head between the seats like a curious puppy. “eunji said her friend was coming but i didn’t know you were so cute.”

you blinked. eunji snorted.

“so, how long have you two been together?” hyeri chirped.

your throat dried up. “since college,” you said, quietly. meant since we met. meant just friends. meant not like that.

eunji leaned back, arms crossed, sunglasses on indoors like she was famous. “mm,” she said, clearly enjoying herself.

“that’s so cute,” hyeri squealed. “like, campus sweethearts? ugh, goals.”

you didn’t reply. just kept your eyes on the road, white lines passing like skipped heartbeats. eunji said nothing else. didn’t correct her. didn’t clarify. just sat there, smug in the seat beside you. when you dropped hyeri off, she waved at both of you like you were a matching pair.

eunji leaned her head back, lips curled, not saying anything. and that silence stretched — long and thick — all the way through traffic, through the music humming soft from the radio.

until finally, you said it. “you weren’t gonna tell them they were wrong?”

eunji scoffed lightly, not looking at you. “you’re the one who said since college.”

“i meant—” your voice cracked. you swallowed it down. “i didn’t mean it like that.”

“then why didn’t you correct her?”

you didn’t answer.

“exactly.”

the rest of the drive was quiet. uncomfortable. your hands gripped the steering wheel too tight. at a red light, you said softly, “i don’t want this. i don’t want to be part of some fake dating rumor.”

“it’s not a rumor,” eunji replied, suddenly cold. “it’s a joke.”

“it’s not funny to me.”

her jaw clenched. she didn’t look at you. “then don’t come next time.”

you blinked. hurt bloomed sharp in your chest. “…sorry,” you muttered.

you bit the inside of your cheek and didn’t say the rest. she was right — you could’ve said something.

meanwhile, back at the studio, the staff were in stitches. sana twirled her drink in one hand, watching the last of the team clean up. laughter still rang from the wardrobe area, one of her members helping and thanking the staff.

“where’s eunji noona?” she asked, light but curious. “and hyeri?”

“her partner picked her up,” someone grinned. “the quiet one? came by to help earlier. kinda cute. real domestic.”

“partner?” nayeon turned. “finally?” even jihyo was laughing now, muttering “about time” as she packed up her water bottle. nayeon made a teasing noise. momo pretended to swoon.

sana smiled with them — wide, amused — but her fingers tapped her cup slowly, rhythm offbeat. “partner, huh?” she repeated. voice soft. a little too soft. “since when?”

“we don’t really know,” someone said. “they looked like they weren’t from here… tan, brownish hair…”

“mm,” sana said, the smile staying but not quite reaching her eyes. “that’s sweet.” she turned back toward the room, slow and thoughtful, eyes a little distant.

supportive. curious. but something tugged behind her ribs. something that didn’t sit right.

-----

the snow doesn't fall like back home. in hawaii, it rains sideways—warm, impatient, sudden. it crashes against the windows with sound. but here, in seoul, the cold is quiet. it sneaks in through your sleeves, clings to your lashes, and whispers in your breath.

you hadn't planned to come this early, but guilt is a heavy thing to carry in silence. you didn’t know why you’d cooked so much. well. maybe you did. maybe you knew exactly why your hands had reached for the pot before you were even fully awake.

you shift the lunch bag in your hands, the weight of kimbap, steaming soup sealed tightly, and lomi salmon still warm under layers of foil. one last thing: a note tucked between the containers, folded awkwardly like you never learned how to apologize out loud.

“sorry for yesterday. hope today’s better.”

you thought about leaving it at the desk. slipping it quietly to a staff member and walking off before anyone asked who it was from. but the bag was warm against your palms. and something about the sky made it hard to leave things half-finished today.

you don’t do half-things anymore. not after that night when you stood with your phone in your hand, your chest caving in, and no one answered.

your boots squeak a little against the polished floors. you glance around. "hey," you ask one of the women near the monitors, "sorry, do you know where i can find eunji?"

she tilts her head. “oh, you’re her—” before she can finish, another voice cuts in. "she’s in the break room, far end." you turn, about to thank the new voice—but the woman freezes slightly, mid-step. dressed casually, no heavy makeup, and still looks like she stepped out of a screen. then someone from behind calls, "jeongyeon! we need you at the monitor again."

you don’t wait to hear the rest.

a half-step of recognition, and a full-body cringe. you force a tight smile, nod quickly, muttering thanks before walking off, fists tightening in your hoodie pocket.

you head to the break room. open the door and—

"ah!" one of the younger staff claps her hands. "eunji-ssi, your partner’s here!" you freeze. but eunji just laughs, startled, maybe a bit flustered. “stop it,” she says with a half-smile. you try to smile, though your hoodie feels too warm now under the weight of everyone’s gaze.

a few staff members were sipping hot drinks, still rubbing sleep from their eyes. and yet—every glance tilted toward you.

eunji rises, brushing past them and meets you near the counter. “you didn’t have to come yourself,” she says softly, eyes flicking to your damp hoodie.

“you’re freezing,” she mutters, stepping closer, brushing snow from your hood. the movement is brief. careful. almost affectionate.

you clear your throat. “i uh… made you food.” her eyes soften. “oh. like… food food?” “kimbap. soup. some stuff from home.” you scratch your cheek. “sorry for snapping at you yesterday.”

“you shouldn't apologize, i was...” she stops. pride catching in her throat. “so dramatic,” you cut in gently, knowing she won’t admit fault, placing the bag down.

"what is this?" someone peeks in. "oh, wow—this smells amazing. is that... soup? and kimbap!" "wait—what’s this? wah! lomi salmon? you’re hawaiian?" you smile faintly. “yeah. born and raised.”

“no wonder,” a woman mutters. “your vibe’s different. warm.” "they really cooked this?" another teases. “wow. is this what it’s like to have a partner?”

eunji groans. “don’t start.”

"no, seriously,” someone says. “they show up early, they cook, and they’re cute. where do you find people like this?”

someone finds the note. reads it aloud. “ugh, i want a partner who apologizes with food.” “look at their hoodie—they're freezing just to bring it over!” you stiffen, ears burning. eunji lifts a hand in warning. “guys, let them breathe.”

you glance at her, surprised. and for once — no teasing in her voice. just that steady calmness she rarely used when others were around.

she looks so much like home — the version of her from college — your heart drops.

you flush, tugging your sleeve. eunji doesn’t say anything, just hands out the extra kimbap. her silence is enough.

you turn to leave, stepping backward. your hoodie up, hands bare, pink with cold. shoulders hunched, your shoes leaving faint, damp prints on the tile — melting snow and whatever came before it.

you turn the corner. don’t glance back.

but sana glances.

her head snaps toward the sound — a soft click, a faint voice saying “thank you for the hawaiian food, eunji’s partner!” — her eyes catch movement across the hallway. her breath falters.

she knows that walk. that build. that way your sleeves hang past your wrists. the curve of your back in the cold. the way you always walked like the world was too loud and you wanted to slip through it unseen.

“what the…” she whispers already stepping forward.

one step. two— “sana,” jihyo’s voice cuts through. “hey. don’t wander. we’re wrapping up.”

sana freezes mid-step. “just a second—” she says. “we’re literally on the last chorus,” jihyo calls.

sana turns, half-dazed. “i thought—” but when she looks back— nothing. just an empty corner.

no hoodie. no footprints. just cold air and silence.

she stares. something inside tightens — not panic, but worse. hope.

“you okay?” jihyo asks. sana swallows. “yeah. i just thought i saw…”

“a sasaeng?” nayeon raises a brow. “no,” sana says quickly. “just… someone i used to know.”

“should i tell the coordi team?” jihyo asks. “no,” sana insists. “it’s fine.” but it’s not fine. her chest is doing that thing again — full and empty all at once.

momo heads back inside. nayeon walks past, grabbing her water. “what was that about?”

“she thought she saw someone,” jihyo says. nayeon leans into sana. “someone you used to date?”

sana doesn’t answer. just laughs. hollow.

because inside, everything is screaming.

because if it was you—why didn’t you say anything?

why does she want to run after you so badly she can barely breathe?

----

the practice room hums with motion.

sana sits on the floor, back against the mirror, her phone tilted low in her lap. across the room, dahyun is spinning in place while jihyo laughs breathlessly, clapping to some beat only they seem to hear. nayeon’s in the corner making tiktoks, and momo’s retying her shoes for the third time. it’s warm, the windows fogged up from the body heat, the air full of sweat and noise and the faint smell of grape vitamin water.

and sana isn’t listening to any of it.

her eyes are fixed on the screen. or rather, what isn’t on it.

no posts. no profile picture. no bio. just your name. just the unchanging emptiness of your instagram.

“twenty minutes,” nayeon calls, peering over sana’s shoulder. “you’ve been staring at that for twenty minutes.”

sana clicks the screen off. “i haven’t.”

“is it one of your old lovers?” nayeon grins. “you saw someone earlier and now you’re sulking like a ghost walked by.”

sana flushes. “they weren’t a lover.”

“oh?” nayeon nudges her foot. “but you wanted them to be?”

“yah,” jihyo warns lightly, “leave her alone.”

but sana is already gone again, in her head. back to that hallway. the brush of cold air when the break room door opened. the way that hoodie slouched just right over familiar shoulders. the slope of a back she hasn’t seen in years — still tall. still quiet. still unreadable.

and then that staff voice echoing down the corridor — thank you for the hawaiian food, eunji’s partner!

sana rubs her chest. it doesn’t help. it aches in that sore, bruised way, like an old song stuck in her bones. the kind of pain that deepens the longer she stares into it.

she turns her screen back on. sighs. still nothing.

"what if you made a new account," she mutters, voice soft, pleading. “what if you moved and didn’t tell anyone? what if you’re hiding on purpose?”

she searches again. again. tries every spelling, every username she thinks you’ll use. flips through mutuals. searches tagged photos. nothing. nothing. nothing.

her brows draw together. she shifts her legs up, hugs her knees to her chest.

“you’re so mean,” she pouts under her breath, the words small and cracked. “do you really not miss anyone? not even a little? not even me?”

the light in eunji’s apartment is low — cold through the window, blue-grey on the counter. your half-finished breakfast sits cooling by the counter near the sink: rice, leftover soup, two limp rolls of kimbap.

you pick one up. hesitate. bite it anyway.

the taste is the same. sesame oil, salt, a little sweetness. but it catches in your throat halfway down. you cough once. then again, harder.

you remember the first time you made something like this — how you folded the rolls with care, how you set them down with a half-smile and an awkward, quiet hope. you remember holding your breath when you offered it, as if the tiniest motion might break whatever fragile thing hung between you. and you remember the silence that followed — heavy, hollow, not rejection exactly, but something colder. something final. she never took it. not then. not ever. she walked away.

the snow outside drifts steady past the window, silent and endless. it paints everything in soft white, too quiet, too clean. it’s so far from hawaii it stings. no crashing waves. no warm sidewalks. just cold that presses deep into your ribs.

you press a palm to your chest. it doesn’t help. you feel stupid.

you set the half-eaten kimbap down, wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve, annoyed at the way it still tasted like memory. your phone buzzes once — a weather alert. more snow coming.

you sigh, unlock your phone, and tap keoni’s name without thinking.

he picks up on the second ring. "yo," he says, voice thick with sleep. "you miss me or somethin’? it’s barely nine here.”

“yeah,” you mutter. “needed a reminder why i left.”

“damn,” he snorts, “you call me just to insult me? cute.”

you lean an elbow against the counter, stare out the kitchen window. snow's collecting unevenly on the sill. “nah. just... breakfast didn’t go well.”

“you’re still cooking sad meals?”

“tried to make kimbap. almost died.”

keoni laughs like it's familiar. “classic. what was it this time — too much rice? veggies?”

“no, man. choked.”

“even better. death by nostalgia.”

you pinch the bridge of your nose. “don’t start.”

but he’s already going. “this about hawaii? you know you're going back like in three days.. or maybe someone from hawaii?”

you don’t answer.

“bro,” keoni says, “you always get like this when winter hits. i remember. you’d come back from the beach and just go full existential. same tone. same tired voice. same ‘i don’t care’ act.”

you flick a speck of rice off your hoodie. “maybe i just miss the weather.”

“nah, you don’t miss the weather. you miss people.”

“what people?”

keoni pauses — too long. then: “you still think about her? not the one from last summer. the one before. the— what was her name... park chaeyoung?”

you exhale sharply. "you’re really digging."

"just checking where your head's at. you had a streak, remember? that tattoo artist in makiki, the girl who worked at the smoothie truck—"

"okay, okay."

"i’m just saying," keoni teases, voice lighter now, "you used to be the heartbreaker, and now you’re choking on your own cooking like some washed-up lead in a breakup drama."

you snort, leaning your forehead against the cabinet. “you’re insufferable.”

“yeah, but you keep calling.”

you go quiet. your fingers drag along the rim of the counter, slow, idle.

keoni softens. “for real, though. you okay?”

you nod even though he can’t see. “yeah.”

“you sure?”

“…not really.”

you hear him shift on the other end, probably sitting up, probably frowning in that overly concerned way he always does when you say something honest.

“you need anything?” he asks.

“nah. just heading out for a bit.”

“wear your coat. you get cold easy.”

“okay, mom.”

“you’re welcome. and hey — you’ll be alright.”

you end the call with a small exhale, but it sticks in your throat on the way out. the apartment is quiet again. still too quiet. the kind that seeps under your skin and just stays.

you drop the phone face-down on the counter. stand there a second. then two. your hand brushes absently over the jacket hook, but you don’t reach for it yet.

your shoulders sag a little.

the soup is cold. the kimbap sits limp and untouched beside the sink. you stare at it too long, eyes blurring slightly before you even realize you're not blinking.

you swallow hard. shift your weight. shake your head once, like it might clear something out.

“this was a mistake,” you whisper. not to anyone. not really even to yourself. just to the silence. “coming here. should’ve just... left it back in the college days.”

you press the heel of your palm into your eye. it burns. when you blink again, your lashes feel wet.

you’re not sure when your chest started hurting — not the physical kind. the other kind. the kind that makes your throat close and your stomach turn and your fingers feel just a little colder than before. like something’s off balance.

you don’t know what’s wrong with you.

seoul isn’t bad. it isn’t. people are kind. the city shines at night. the food is good.

but it all feels... wrong.

you glance at the jacket still hanging. stare at the door. your pulse skips for no reason.

something’s missing.

you don’t know what, but it’s loud. the absence. it rattles in the walls, curls beneath your ribs. it’s in the corners of the room, in the way the heat never quite warms your fingers, in the way the streets feel too full but still lonely.

your hand finally reaches for the coat. you fumble the zipper. breathe in, shaky. tug the sleeves on like muscle memory.

the snow then greets you like it knows everything.

and you don’t even flinch.

----

the evening tastes like metal — like old coins, cold wind, the edge of something unfinished.

you walk seoul like it’s borrowed.

your steps echo too loud on empty sidewalks, too slow to belong here. behind fogged windows, strangers laugh over beer and tteokbokki. the streets pulse warm with life, but none of it touches you. your gloved hands stay tucked in your pockets. scarf pulled high. hood drawn low. not hiding — just… detached. you don’t know what you’re looking for. maybe a memory. maybe peace. maybe nothing.

snow hadn’t been in the forecast. but still, it starts — soft, drifting, clinging to hair and sleeves and streetlamps. your breath clouds the air.

you cross at a blinking light, pass a steaming cart of roasted chestnuts, nod politely at the ahjumma selling candied sweet potatoes. her smile falters when she sees your face — like she almost recognizes something in it. or maybe it’s just your eyes. they’ve been glassy all day.

a song plays from a café behind you. gentle, string-heavy.. It reminds you of beach bonfires back home. 

you don’t let the memory finish.

your boots hit a patch of ice.

someone slams into you.

“oh—” you stagger back. the other body slips — there’s a startled gasp, arms flailing, then the unmistakable thump of a fall.

“shit—are you okay?” you stumble with her, one hand reaching out, the other already pulling your coat off. she lands hard, knees to concrete. the snow’s picking up. you crouch beside her, already draping the coat over her shoulders without thinking.

“sorry, i didn’t see—here, let me—” you say patting your coat onto her shoulders, panic creeping up. “you alright? are you hurt? please don’t be—”

you reach out to steady her.

and then she looks up. your breath lodges in your throat.

the girl doesn’t speak. just stares — stunned, still, blinking flakes off her lashes.

“…why do i keep bumping into people in seoul,” you murmur, trying to laugh, trying to defuse the sudden tightness in your chest.

she doesn’t laugh.

her hand rises slowly to her mask. she pulls it down.

and the world breaks open.

fuck.

you flinch like her name was a slap. your mouth opens, closes. your heartbeat lurches.

you look away first. of course you do.

“you—” your voice caves in on itself. you look away, throat burning, the snow sticking to your lashes now too.

she’s still sitting on the cold pavement, the coat slipping slightly down her arms, her fingers frozen in the air where they nearly reached for you.

sana’s lips part, stunned.

she doesn’t move to stand. doesn’t blink. just stares up at you like the moment itself is unreal — like if she breathes too hard, you’ll disappear again.

“you…” she finally whispers. “you’re really here.”

you force yourself to look at her again. your eyes flicker to her knee, where a small scrape blooms red. guilt spikes in your ribs.

but so does something else. something bitter. something old.

“yeah,” you manage. “guess i am.” your hands curl into fists inside your sleeves.

you want to ask her why. why she never called. why she let everything rot between you.

but you can’t. you don’t get to ask anymore.

you reach forward — stiff, — and help her up without looking at her. she wobbles slightly, then finds her footing. your hand lingers just a moment longer than it should.

and when you try to step back—

she grabs your wrist.

not enough to pull you in. just enough to stop you from walking away.

you freeze but you don’t look at her.

you retract your hand like it's been poisoned. “it’s slippery,” you say, too sharp. “you should be careful.”

she doesn’t move. her voice breaks. “i… i thought—”

a vibration hums from her pocket. her phone. she reaches for it blindly, never taking her eyes off you.

“…unnie?” her voice is raw. “yeah. i’m fine. just… slipped. i’ll be there soon.”

her eyes flick to yours, pleading.

you step back.

you don’t know what to do with the ache pounding behind your ribs.

you glance once at the scrape on her knee, at your own coat still hanging awkwardly over her frame.

then you step back again.

the snow’s falling heavier now. catching in your lashes. numbing your fingers.

“take care, sana,” you say, eyes fixed on the space beside her.

then you turn and walk.

no second glance. no goodbye in your tone. nothing.

just the weight in your chest tightening with every step away.

and behind you, she’s still standing there — clutching the phone, your coat sagging over her shoulders, her lips trembling.

the streetlamp glows soft over her hair. the snow keeps falling.

and she doesn’t chase after you.

she just watches you disappear again.

like the first time.

-----

it had been a few days since that night.

seoul after dark looked like a painting still drying — amber streetlamps dripping across the pavement, shop windows blinking like soft hearts in the cold. your breath fogged in the air, scarf tucked to your chin, hands shoved deep in your coat pockets.

“next time, it’s your turn,” you said, walking beside eunji.

she grinned. “my turn to what? get eaten alive by mosquitoes while you drink overpriced smoothies?”

you laughed. “yeah. exactly.”

you turned a corner. the crowds thinned, noise fading to stone alleys and old rooftops. paper lanterns swayed above. for a second, it felt like hawaii again — quiet and open. except colder. lonelier.

“it’s nice here,” eunji said, slowing. “different. but nice.”

you nodded. her hand hovered close to yours.

then her phone buzzed.

she glanced at it. sighed. “manager. give me a sec?”

“i’ll wander,” you said.

“sure?”

“won’t get kidnapped. probably.”

she snorted and stepped away, phone already to her ear.

you walked on, through older streets where café windows glowed and the air smelled like grilled fish. couples leaned close inside, but you didn’t stop.

until you heard it.

a voice — soft, panicked.

“…i’m waiting for someone. please.”

you turned.

there she was.

hood slipped, mask crooked, pressed against a wall. two men stood too close. one whispered something near her ear. her eyes searched, fast, desperate.

she didn’t see you.

you exhaled. stepped forward.

“there you are,” you called, loud and sure. “honey, i’ve been looking everywhere.”

sana flinched. the men turned.

you reached her side, arm sliding around her back. she tensed — but didn’t move away. not when you tucked her hair behind her ear, not when you leaned in like this was natural.

“sorry,” you said, loud. “she gets lost easily.”

“who are you?” one asked.

“her partner.”

“she didn’t say anything.”

“she doesn’t need to.”

you tried to guide her away — but one grabbed her wrist.

you didn’t think. your fist met his face. not clean, but hard. he stumbled, hit a bin.

the other shoved you.

you ducked his swing, shoved him back. fists, elbows, cold breath. messy. desperate.

he landed a punch — your lip split. blood on your tongue.

you kneed his stomach. he dropped. then hands pushed you from behind — you hit the ground, everything ringing.

“stop!” sana’s voice, cracked and terrified.

you grabbed an ankle, yanked. he fell. you pinned him, breath ragged.

“try it again,” you spat. “touch her again.”

he swore. the other pulled you back. a tangle of limbs and cursing — knuckles, feet, the sting of winter air.

finally, they fled. bruised. bleeding. spitting.

you didn’t move. not yet.

sana was kneeling beside you, hands hovering.

“you’re bleeding,” she whispered. “why would you—”

“are you okay?” you rasped.

she stared like she’d never seen you before.

“you’re shaking,” she whispered. “can you stand?”

you tried. legs buckled, and she caught you — one hand on your arm, one at your back.

“you’re not going to a hospital?” she asked.

“ just busted lip,” you muttered. “i’ve had worse.”

“when?” her voice cracked. “in what world is that normal?”

you looked away. “i’m fine.”

“you’re not.”

she fixed your coat, fingers trembling. her voice softened.

“come back with me.”

you blinked. “what?”

“just for a bit. so i can clean that up.”

you looked at her — jaw tight, legs pressed together like she was still cold.

“…you sure you know how to fix a split lip?”

“no,” she said. “but i can google it.”

you almost laughed.

“you really don’t have to—”

“i still have your coat.”

you blinked.

“i never gave it back.”

“so let me return it,” she said. “at my place.”

the silence stretched.

and you could feel it — how different her voice was. not playful. not teasing. just soft.

eunji.

the thought flickered.

you hadn’t told her where you were.

your hands curled.

sana still waited. still watched you.

you opened your mouth. closed it.

and finally — “...no.”

-----

“shit… sana—”

you groaned, sharp through your teeth. her name came out hoarse. low. too much breath tangled inside it.

your head tipped back against the armrest, shoulders tense, hands clenched into the hem of the coat she made you take off. warm legs straddled your lap, soft weight pressing into your thighs. every movement made you flinch. not from discomfort. not exactly.

her fingers brushed your jaw, tilted your face up again. “stop moving,” she muttered. “you’ll make it worse.”

“you’re making it worse,” you hissed, eyes fluttering shut. “what are you doing—”

“cleaning it,” she snapped, then winced. “sorry. i mean—i’m trying.”

your eyes cracked open.

she was kneeling over you, sleeves shoved up, a wet towel caught between her fingers like she was about to perform minor surgery instead of dabbing at your busted lip. it looked like a scene from a movie. the kind with slow lighting. a girl hovering over a wounded lover, flushed and tender.

you blinked. tried not to laugh. “you ever seen a medical drama?”

sana’s brows pinched. “what?”

“like grey’s anatomy. or literally any film with a medic. you dab. not scrub.”

“i’m not scrubbing!”

“you’re scrubbing, sana.”

“you’re bleeding!”

“i was bleeding.”

she scowled at you, then dipped the towel into the warm bowl of water on the side table again, wrung it out with far too much force.

your breath caught.

her hair brushed your cheek. her thigh shifted just slightly against yours. she smelled like shampoo and something faintly floral — something too gentle for the way your jaw throbbed.

“this is the weirdest thing i’ve ever done,” she mumbled.

“you’re literally on top of me.”

“i didn’t have space!”

“you could’ve just—” you gestured vaguely, “—sat next to me.”

“but then you’d have to lean back and i’d have to, like, hover weirdly and i didn’t want to make it more uncomfortable—”

“this is more uncomfortable.”

she froze. “i didn’t mean—” you sighed, dropped your head against the cushion again. “nevermind.”

she didn’t say anything. just softened her touch, dabbing more carefully at the corner of your mouth. gentler now. almost apologetic.

“…sorry,” she said quietly.

you didn’t answer. not because you were mad — just because something about the way she said it made your chest pull too tight. not playful. not guilty. just… sorry. like she’d wanted to say it for a long time.

her knee brushed yours again, unsure, like she didn’t know whether to stay or get up. finally she climbed off and sat beside you. the towel rested between you now, wet and red.

you could still hear her breathing — a little unsteady. her eyes were soft now, lingering on the cut on your lip, the bruising across your cheekbone. you didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything.

her voice came quiet. “how’s hawaii?”

you blinked, slow. “hot,” you said after a beat.

she looked up. “are you adjusting okay to seoul?”

you let out a laugh. flat. “i’m not staying. it’s just a vacation.”

“still,” she murmured, “you like it?”

you hesitated. “…i like the han river.”

she tilted her head. “just that?”

you didn’t answer. didn’t say you hadn’t explored much because eunji’s schedule was always full. didn’t say you were afraid of being alone. you just shifted your gaze, watching the soft yellow light of her apartment spill across the wooden floor.

sana was still holding the towel.

she stared down at it, twisted in her hands. then, suddenly—

“i hated not knowing if you were okay.”

you turned to her, slowly.

“when you left,” she said, barely above a whisper. “when the messages stopped. i thought about it a lot. i kept checking—just to see something. anything.”

you blinked, face unreadable. “well. you wouldn't know.”

she looked up sharply. “what?”

you swallowed, tasting metal still. “we weren’t in contact.”

her face shifted — not angry, but straining to hold something back.

“i had your instagram.”

you let out a breath of disbelief, jaw tight. “i don’t use it much.”

lie.

you knew her tour dates. her outfit choices. you’d liked exactly zero posts, but you’d seen them all.

you stood slowly, brushing your jeans off. her apartment was small but beautiful — warm light, low furniture, a little bookshelf with soft pink covers and tiny candles shaped like hearts. it was too clean. too curated. it didn’t feel lived in.

it felt like her.

you were biting your lip before you even realized. not from pain — from something else. something restless in your chest.

then your phone buzzed.

eunji.

you stared down at the screen, thumb frozen above it.

sana’s eyes tracked the movement. her expression shifted — not readable at first, then quiet, then tighter. her gaze dropped.

you stepped back toward the couch, reaching for your coat. the other coat, too — the one you gave when you met. it was draped across the armrest, familiar weight in your hands.

you didn’t realize until then how quiet the room had gotten.

you were halfway to the door when her voice stopped you.

“…why didn’t you ever reach out?”

you turned.

she was still seated, her back slouched slightly now, head low. her voice came soft, almost like it wasn’t meant for you.

you stared at her.

your hand gripped the doorframe.

“you were the one,” you said, each word cutting clean, “who didn’t want to stay in touch.”

she flinched — not visibly, but enough.

her mouth opened, breath catching.

“i gave you my nu—”

the door swung open.

“sana?” jihyo’s voice rang out.

“what the hell—” momo froze in the entryway, food bag hitting the floor with a loud, greasy splat.

“uh…” nayeon scanned the room. “sorry. are we interrupting something?”

you froze, coat over one arm, the other half-raised from where you’d been reaching for the door.

your arm dropped. coat draped over it. you bowed stiffly. deep.

no one said anything else.

you stepped past them, through the narrow hallway. cold air met your face.

you didn’t look back.

and sana still didn't follow you.

----

the door shut behind you like the last line of a poem that never resolved.

sana didn’t move.

not even as the silence expanded — thick, suspended, trembling at the edges. it filled the room in your absence. wrapped around the walls. curled beneath the couch.

momo broke it first. her voice cracked like a mismatched chord.

“wait. was that—was that your partner?”

jihyo didn’t answer. she just looked at sana the way you look in a mirror after crying — cautious. careful. like the reflection might flinch.

nayeon bent to pick up the fallen food bag, her usual teasing stripped down to something quieter. “sana… who was that?”

no reply.

her hands were still twisted in the towel, knuckles pale from how tight she was holding on. her coat had slipped off one shoulder, like she’d started to move but forgot how. her face wasn’t blank — just stunned. like someone bracing for a wave and realizing too late they’d already drowned.

no smile. no laugh to deflect. no shrug to send the moment skipping across the surface.

just one breath.

deep. tired. from somewhere inside her she didn’t want anyone to hear.

jihyo stepped closer, a hand gentle on her shoulder. “you should talk to them.”

momo sat beside her, voice quieter now. “they looked like they weren’t coming back.”

sana’s lips parted. her eyes stayed closed.

when she finally spoke, it was soft. stripped down.

“i don’t even know where to start.”

nayeon joined them on the couch, her voice like a lifeline. “start anywhere,” she said. “just don’t wait until it’s too late.”

silence stretched again. waiting.

a buzz.

sana’s phone vibrated against the wooden table. once. like a heartbeat.

she leaned forward.

glanced.

then froze.

jihyo leaned in. “what is it?”

but sana was already moving.

standing so quickly the towel slipped from her hands and fell to the floor with a wet sound. it lay there forgotten, red-stained and wrung out like her.

she didn’t answer.

and the weight of something unspoken had finally broken the surface.

---

the cold bit first. not in your skin, but somewhere deeper — tucked just beneath your ribs, where old memories fester. it wasn’t the kind of cold you could dress for. it was the kind that reminded you of things. of quiet heartbreak. of silence stretched too long. the kind that made you ache even in your bones.

the han river looked different at night — less like water, more like glass. unmoving. half-asleep. the wind skimmed its surface like fingers trailing over old scars, soft and unkind. your footsteps slowed without you meaning to, gravel grinding under each step as the snow began to fall in fine, hesitant flakes. it wasn’t quite winter yet, but the season had started whispering at the edges.

you wandered down the path you remembered from your last visit — a small, hidden curve near the water, where the trees leaned low like they were trying to listen. here, the noise of the city faded. the sky opened up wide and quiet. even your thoughts sounded too loud.

you sat down.

no one else was around. just you, the frost, and the city lights across the water flickering like stars someone forgot to wish on. the bench beneath you was damp and cold, and your fingers curled into your sleeves out of instinct. somewhere nearby, a car passed — distant and muffled — then everything was still again.

your phone buzzed.

you didn’t look. another buzz. you didn’t move.

eunji.

you stared at the name glowing faintly in the dark, then finally tapped out something dull, mechanical:

i just got lost. i’ll be back soon.

you left her on read.

your thumb hovered over the camera app for a second. the river. the snow. the faint blur of light. you took a photo without thinking and posted it. no caption. not even a filter.

it looked more like a memory than a real place. something half-dreamt. like you could reach through the screen and touch a version of yourself that didn’t exist anymore.

you exhaled, long and shaky. the air tasted sharp, metallic. like it could cut.

then — footsteps.

slow, deliberate, crunching through snow.

you didn’t turn around right away. your whole body tensed, your heart ticking faster against your ribs.

“if i get murdered right now,” you muttered, voice flat, “at least it’s poetic.”

no one answered.

but you felt it. that shift in the air. the way the cold paused.

you turned and saw her.

sana.

not just standing — but running. or maybe she had been. her hair was wind-tangled, her cheeks flushed deep from the cold. she looked breathless, lashes tipped in snow, like the world had tried to stop her and she hadn’t let it. she didn’t speak. not at first. just stood there like she was trying to believe you were real.

your chest pulled tight.

“how—”

she stepped forward. her voice barely carried. “your story.”

her eyes searched yours. and for a second — a real, whole second — you saw her how she used to look at you. like you were a question worth asking.

the snow fell slow between you, soft and endless, like even time didn’t want to intrude. her breath came out quick, uneven clouds in the air. she looked like something you shouldn’t touch — too fragile, too out of reach.

you swallowed. “did you come all the way out here for that?”

she nodded once. her mouth opened, then closed again, like she didn’t trust her voice. it shook, anyway.

“why…” she tried.

you waited.

then it hit — like something breaking loose all at once. she shouted, “why didn’t you ever contact me?!”

her voice split the cold open.

your heart lurched. you flinched — not visibly, but inside, where everything had been trying to hold steady.

her voice ripped through the cold. it cracked something open. inside you. inside her.

you flinched. not from the sound — from the grief.

“i gave you a picture,” she went on, chest rising too fast. “back in hawaii. i wrote my number on it. i… i waited. i checked. i thought you just didn’t want to—”

her voice broke like glass on pavement.

you stared at her. stunned. the air between you was quiet again, like the river itself had gone still, holding its breath.

“…i never got it,” you said.

sana blinked.

“what?”

you stepped forward slowly. your voice was low, flat, and too calm for how hard your heart was beating.

“i never got a picture. or your number.”

she just stared.

"what do you mean—" sana stepped closer. her boots left small, lonely prints in the snow.

your jaw clenched.

"you didn’t even acknowledge the food i gave you," you said, your voice tight. "i asked eunji to pass it to you. i thought that was your answer. i thought you didn’t want anything to do with me.”

her brow furrowed, confused and sharp with emotion. “what food?”

"what food?" she said again, louder, desperate now. “what are you talking about?”

you looked at her. saw the confusion. the hurt.

it wasn’t a lie.

a sick weight pulled in your stomach.

“did you give your number to eunji?”

she nodded, slowly. lips pale. “yeah. she said she’d—”

and that was it.

the drop.

that moment just before the fall, where everything hangs still, perfect, poised — and then it shatters.

your body reeled like it had been pushed.

you caught yourself on the edge of the bench.

the snow didn’t stop falling.

it landed on your hands. your shoulders. the back of your neck. it melted there. turned cold to water. turned water to silence.

you laughed once. it sounded like it hurt your throat.

“she never gave it to me,” you said. not looking at her now. “she never gave me anything.”

the silence stretched.

the river rippled, dark and slow.

“i checked,” she said, voice cracking. “i kept checking. your instagram. just to see if you were okay. if you remembered me. i didn’t want to text first. i didn’t want to be stupid—”

"you weren’t," you said. too fast. too bitter.

sana flinched.

“we were both stupid,” you added, softer. “just for different reasons.”

she didn’t speak. just looked down at her hands like they were broken things. like maybe they were the problem.

and the snow kept falling.

light, and relentless, and quiet.

for a second, it felt like hawaii again. that last day. that last look.

but colder.

colder than anything. colder than the wind.

and all that time — all those years — you’d both been waiting.

for each other.

for nothing.

-----

you should’ve walked away.

but instead, your hand moved first. quiet. like instinct, or something older. you stepped forward, took your extra coat, and gently draped it over her frame.

she blinked.

not at the coat — at you.

your hands stayed on her arms a second longer than needed. the fabric was too big for her. it swallowed her up. still, she looked so small inside it. fragile, like something you couldn’t bear to drop again.

you shook your head once, slow. not at her. not at you. just the ache.

then, without a word, you turned toward the street.

she followed.

you didn’t look back, but you heard her behind you — her steps crunching against the snow, her breath hitching in a way that didn’t sound like cold anymore.

the snow kept falling, more tender now, like the sky was softening too. the streets were quieter out here, shining in the pale yellow of old lamps and flickering signs. your footsteps were slow. hers, unsteady. she had to hug the coat tighter to her chest just to believe it was real.

because none of this felt real.

a week ago you were still a ghost. an ache behind her ribs. and now you were here, your shadow stretching long beside hers, your scent faint on the collar she curled into.

you found a convenience store. the kind with flickering lights and soft fluorescent hums. warm. too warm. the bell above the door chimed like a lullaby.

the light inside the convenience store buzzed faintly, humming low like it knew not to speak too loudly. outside, the snow fell slow — quiet little ghosts drifting past the windows. inside, it was warmer, but not by much. just enough to thaw fingers, not hearts.

then the light — cold and artificial, but merciful. she blinked through it, watching as you nodded politely to the cashier and led her to a tiny seating area by the window: just two plastic chairs, a metal table, and a dusty radiator ticking faintly.

“sit,” you said, quiet.

she did. still shivering a little, still glancing over her shoulder, like the spell might break.

you were already at the aisles — grabbing ramen cups, pouring water into a machine, picking out bottled drinks with practiced hands. she watched you like it was a ritual. like you’d done this a thousand times before — maybe alone, maybe with someone else. the latter hurt more than she expected.

you came back with a tray. placed it down gently.

one bowl slid toward her. “it’s hot.”

you sat across from her in the narrow seating area tucked beside the instant noodles aisle. the plastic chairs were flimsy, slightly uneven. one wobbled under sana’s weight every time she shifted, but she didn’t complain. she was wrapped in your extra coat — the one you’d taken from her place earlier, now draped over her shoulders like it had never belonged anywhere else. it dwarfed her frame. swallowed her neck. but she didn’t adjust it. didn’t even try to pull it tighter.

your hands were red from the cold. one held a plastic fork. the other nursed a canned coffee gone lukewarm.

you glanced up when she chuckled softly — just a breath, just enough to be heard over the low whir of the heater overhead.

“ice cream in winter?” she asked, nodding to the half-melted cone near your tray.

you stared at it, then gave a small shrug. “i never really adjusted. not to seoul’s winter.”

your voice came out quieter than you meant. it didn’t sound like a statement. more like an apology to no one.

sana looked at you for a long time.

then, gently, “how long have you been here?”

you hesitated. fiddled with the tab of your drink. “two weeks.”

she blinked. “that long?”

“eunji invited me,” you said. the name caught in your throat, dry and sharp. “i didn’t really plan to stay.”

you didn’t tell her that you hadn’t even unpacked fully. you didn’t say anything more.

and sana didn’t press.

outside, a car passed slowly, headlights skimming across the snow-covered glass. inside, the air felt too still.

her knees brushed against yours under the table. not fully — just the softest graze. like breath against skin. like memory.

neither of you moved.

she turned her face slightly, watching you from beneath her lashes.

“…when are you leaving?”

you exhaled, low. the steam from your cup twisted into the air between you.

“tomorrow.”

a pause.

then a frown bloomed between her brows. not sudden — slow and reluctant, like it hurt to let it show.

she looked down. “that’s soon.”

you nodded once, then broke your gaze to stare out the window again. the world outside felt unreal. just frost and blur and noise you couldn’t name.

she was the one who broke the silence again. quietly. carefully.

“you and eunji…”

her voice trailed.

you turned your head back toward her. she wasn’t looking at you. her fingers were curled around her can of corn tea, knuckles faintly white.

you watched her.

then shook your head once. “no.”

sana blinked. her lashes trembled, catching the light.

“the day at jyp…” she started, voice unsure. “they said—”

“it was an act.” your voice was low, rougher than before. “she didn’t want to look bad in front of staff. so i… i went along with it.”

you paused. frowned deeper. your gaze dropped to your lap. your hands had curled into fists without you noticing.

“honestly,” you said, “i'm disappointed in her.”

sana stayed silent.

you rubbed your thumb against the edge of the table. your eyes didn’t lift. “i wanted to be closer to you before. not… hidden. not kept away like some—”

you didn’t finish the sentence. just let the words hang, fraying.

“i don't like it.”

the heater clicked once. the sound of the soup boiling behind the counter faded. even the workers had gone quiet, leaving the space around you dim and flickering.

then—

“did you… date anyone after i left?” sana asked.

you blinked once. didn’t answer.

your fingers twitched. your shoulders curled in slightly.

then, slowly, you nodded.

“yeah,” you said. voice stripped bare. “fuck, i did date to forget about you.”

the words fell like something you couldn’t catch in time. as soon as they left your mouth, your body recoiled — just slightly — a wince folding your brow, your gaze falling.

“sorry,” you muttered quickly. “i didn’t mean to— sorry for the curses, sana...”

you shifted an inch away, as if trying to put space between your shame and her silence.

but sana didn’t move.

you kept your head down. your voice cracked quieter now. “i tried. i really tried. to forget you. to un-feel it. to fill the space you left. even if you were there for only a week.”

your jaw tensed. “nothing worked.”

a beat passed.

her knee touched yours again, this time firmer. not an accident. and still, she didn’t move away.

your eyes lifted.

she was looking at you like she hadn’t stopped. her cheeks were flushed, but not from the cold. her breath was caught in her throat.

her voice came out like silk rubbed raw. “i didn’t date anyone.”

you stared.

“i was waiting for you,” she said.

and the air left your lungs.

like a door closing inside your chest.

your pulse stuttered. your fingers curled into your palms. the coat slipped slightly off her shoulder, but she didn’t fix it. her eyes were glassy. the corner of her lip trembled.

you didn’t speak.

you couldn’t.

the heater buzzed. your soup had gone cold. her knees were still touching yours. her fingers still clutched the cup, as if anchoring herself in the moment.

neither of you moved.

and outside, the snow kept falling. quiet. steady. like it had never stopped.

the ringtone broke first.

not loud. just a sharp little jingle against the quiet hum of the store. sana blinked, slow — like surfacing from a dream — and fished her phone from the coat pocket you’d lent her.

she glanced at the screen. didn’t hide it.

jihyo unnie~

you didn’t say anything. just lowered your gaze and gently stirred the noodles in your cup, their steam softening the tips of your lashes.

she answered.

“hello?”

her voice was gentle, a little dazed.

and then — jihyo’s voice, from the other end, sharp and unmistakable, even without speaker on. fast, worried, scolding. like a leader who’d paced her apartment three times already. “yah, sana! where did you even go? you didn’t take your coat! what were you thinking—”

you slurped your noodles quietly, trying to stay small in the background. your ears were pink.

“unnie, i’m okay,” sana said, trying to keep her tone light. “really. i’m warm now.”

“don’t lie! did you even eat anything?”

sana glanced at you. her eyes softened. her voice followed.

“…i’m eating now.”

your hand froze for a moment around your fork. your ears burned red geez, why did she look at you and not her food..

but then jihyo’s voice cut again — lower now, more teasing. the kind that pokes just enough to hit the nerve. “okay, okay. just let us know if you and your partner made up already. seriously, you two gave us a heart attack today—”

sana jolted.

you coughed — too hard — and choked on a mouthful of noodles, smacking your chest once, eyes wide.

“what—” you wheezed.

sana scrambled to hang up. “okay love you unnie bye!!” she rushed into the phone, her voice rising three pitches in panic before she jabbed the red button.

silence.

then sana slowly turned her head to you, her eyes round as moons. her cheeks glowed crimson. she tried to stammer something but failed.

you stared at her. still chewing.

then, wordlessly, you checked the time on your phone. you look flustered and slightly tried to hide your phone's wallpaper hoping she won't see. 11:03 pm.

you exhaled. stood up. started gathering the trays.

“…let’s get you home.”

she didn’t argue. just nodded, small. the coat slid down her shoulder again. you reached over without thinking and fixed it for her, brushing her collar gently back into place.

she looked away too fast.

the walk to the curb was quiet. the snow had softened again, sticking in your lashes, whispering into your collar. your hand hovered near her elbow once, just in case she slipped.

you hailed the first taxi that passed. it was old, yellowed, with soft fabric seats that smelled faintly of coffee and dust.

you opened the door for her.

not smoothly — your hand slipped a little on the handle — but you managed it. and still, you kept your eyes averted as she stepped in.

she smiled.

you followed after. sat beside her in the back, not too close, but close enough that her sleeve brushed yours.

the driver glanced back at you through the mirror. “where to?”

sana named her apartment building.

you nodded faintly.

then fished out your wallet. thumbed a few bills nervously, then leaned forward slightly toward the driver.

“…uh. two payments, sir. one for her place, one for me, and… could you wait for me while i take her up? i’ll give extra.”

your voice cracked a little near the end.

the driver blinked.

then smiled.

“such a cute couple,” he said warmly. “of course i’ll wait.”

you made a strangled noise and sat back in your seat like you’d been pushed.

sana pressed a hand over her mouth.

“ugh. cutie,” sana whispered to herself, like she couldn’t help it. the word dropped from her lips like it had been begging to be said.

her ears were red. the kind of red that crept down her neck. her knees knocked gently against yours again as the car rolled forward, but this time, she didn’t flinch or pull away.

you groaned under your breath, hiding your face.

the car moved. outside, the snow turned to lace against the windows. inside, everything was warmer now — from the heater vents, from the nearness, from her smile lingering on you.

you looked away — out the window, anywhere. the city was all smudged lights and wet reflections. your heart pounded too loud for such a quiet ride.

you didn’t speak.

you just sat there.

quiet, hearts loud, knees almost touching.

and for once — her silence didn’t hurt.

—

the taxi rolled to a stop with a gentle lurch. before the wheels had even settled, you were already pushing the door open, stepping out quickly and glancing over your shoulder just to make sure—

“careful,” you muttered under your breath, eye flicking to where sana was stepping down onto the pavement. she wobbled slightly, so you moved closer, as if your presence alone might catch her.

she didn’t fall. but she glanced up and caught you watching.

you looked away, muttering a quiet “sorry,” and turned to face the driver again.

“we’ll just be a minute,” you said, tugging your wallet from your coat pocket.

the driver, older and kind-faced, waved a hand. “it’s alright. i’ll take a smoke break. take your time, young love.”

you flushed. again. nodded quickly. “thank you. really. i won’t be long.”

you turned back to sana, who was already halfway to the door, glancing back at you with a tiny, lopsided smile. you caught up without thinking. you caught up in the lobby, breath shallow, coat still hanging awkwardly off your shoulders as the glass doors hissed shut behind you. she was already pressing the elevator button — hair slightly damp from the snow, fingers twitching from the cold.

your steps slowed beside her. not from hesitation — but from the weight in your chest.

you could feel your pulse under your palm. loud. impatient. like it couldn’t believe this was real.

the elevator pinged.

you shifted slightly, feeling the edge of her coat sleeve brush yours. her arm was warm. or maybe it was you. or maybe it was just the heat between you that wouldn’t stop rising.

she pressed the button to her floor. didn’t speak. neither did you.

but your hand didn’t leave your chest.

your heart wouldn’t let you.

the elevator climbed. you swallowed.

a soft ding.

the elevator opened.

you stepped out with her. the hallway was dimly lit, carpet soft beneath your shoes, the kind of silence that echoed.

when she opened her door, the scent hit you first — faint jasmine and something warmer underneath, something lived-in. the place was tidy but full. plush furniture, warm wood, golden light from standing lamps. not overly fancy. but not cold either.

like her.

warmth.

the apartment greeted you like a memory: mismatched slippers by the door. it was warmer than you remembered. more alive. more hers.

you looked around, slower this time. eyes tracing the edge of her countertops, the curve of the furniture. the spill of light from the kitchen. your coat still hung on her shoulders, loose and oversized, like it belonged there.

“you can keep the coat,” you said, suddenly — before you could think. “i mean. it suits you.”

she raised an eyebrow. “it’s yours.”

“still looks better on you.”

a beat passed — then she looked away, flustered. her cheeks pink again.

you stepped further in. something dark on the floor caught your eye — a towel. stained faintly with blood. your breath hitched, but you bent down quietly, lifting it by the corners like it was fragile. you carried it to the kitchen sink and ran water over it, gently squeezing out the worst of it.

“you didn’t have to,” she said softly behind you.

"it's my mess. and i wanted to."

you turned. she was still standing in the same place, hands in your coat pockets, watching you with a gaze that melted like candlewax. slow, fond. like she was memorizing something.

you cleared your throat.

but she was watching you.

smiling.

you cleared your throat. dropped your gaze. “sorry, i didn’t say this earlier, but… your apartment’s really pretty.”

“mm.” she turned, flicking on a lamp near the window. it bathed her face in warm amber. “it’s big, huh?”

you nodded, still glancing around. your fingers brushed the back of a chair as you passed. “yeah. i didn’t notice these doors before either. they’re—huge.”

“they’re for the future,” she said, casually.

you blinked. turned back. “huh? like… storage?”

she smirked. not even trying to hide it. “no. for when i have a family.”

your breath caught.

you looked at her.

she was still smirking. still smug. eyes sharp with amusement.

“…not a house?” you asked, dumbly.

and her grin widened like the moon. “oh? so you want a house?”

you opened your mouth. closed it. opened it again. your face flushed hot. too fast.

“n-no,” you stammered, looking at the door, the wall, anything that wasn’t her. “i mean yes—i mean—i should go, the taxi guy’s waiting, he probably—”

“ah,” she said, still grinning, still holding back a laugh. “didn’t mean to scare you.”

“you didn’t,” you muttered.

you stepped back, nearly tripping over the shoe rack. she laughed again. then — quieter, this time — she said, “will you be online later?”

you paused.

then nodded. “if you want me to text, i will.”

she didn’t answer right away. just nodded slowly, her gaze dipping to the floor. her fingers brushed the edge of your coat sleeve again — once, almost absentminded — before stepping back.

you didn’t look back when you left. couldn’t.

your heart was too full.

you opened the taxi door and stepped in. the car was warm, still humming softly with the radio. the driver looked up in the rearview mirror and smiled.

“she’s a beautiful woman,” he said, pulling gently away from the curb.

you looked down at your hands. they were shaking. you pressed them together.

“…yeah,” you whispered. “overbearing. complicated. loud sometimes.”

you smiled.

“but i like it..”

i like her.

the driver didn’t reply.

but he smiled to himself.

and when the city lights passed by again — golden halos, bright snow falling, seoul glowing like something alive — you finally felt it in your bones.

this place didn’t feel like a memory anymore.

for the first time, it felt like it fit. like it filled something in you.

like it wasn’t just seoul.

it was hers.

and maybe — slowly, finally — it was yours too.

—---

the taxi slowed in front of your building.

you hadn’t said much after that last glance through the window. hadn’t even looked at the driver until now. the soft warmth in your chest was starting to settle, and underneath it — colder, sharper — was the memory of why you left the apartment in the first place.

you nodded, quietly. “thanks.” you gave him the extra money like you promised.

he gave you a knowing smile, then tapped the steering wheel. “take care, kid.”

you stepped out into the dim entry lights. the door buzzed open. your shoes echoed on the tiled floor. each step up the stairwell felt heavier than the last.

and when you opened the door to her apartment — she was already there.

“where the hell were you?”

eunji.

she was standing barefoot in the hallway, sleeves pushed up, eyes frantic and glistening. the moment she saw you, she rushed forward, her arms wrapping tight around your shoulders.

you didn’t move.

“you ran off,” she whispered against your shoulder. “you didn’t answer. i didn’t know where—”

“i saw her.”

you felt her body tense.

you pulled back just enough to look at her.

“i met sana,” you said again, quieter this time. “outside. I helped her with something..”

eunji’s eyes flickered. her arms dropped.

she stepped back. “what did you do?”

the way she said it — not what happened, but what did you do — stung.

your frown deepened. “why does it sound like i’m in the wrong?”

“i didn’t say that,” she muttered.

you stared at her. and then, finally, you said it.

“why did you keep her away from me?”

she flinched.

“i—” her mouth opened, then closed. her eyes darted. “i didn’t.”

you shook your head, once, slowly. “eunji.”

she still didn’t meet your eyes.

“you’ve been lying. you know how i can tell?” your voice cracked slightly. “i know you since college, eunji. i already memorized everything about you.”

a long silence stretched between you.

then, like something broke loose, her voice came out sharp and trembling.

“what was i supposed to do?” she said. “what if she broke you? i thought you’d forget. i thought if i didn’t say anything, you’d finally—” 

she paused. her jaw clenched.

“—you’d finally see me.”

your breath caught.

her hands were curled into fists at her sides.

“do you know what it felt like?” she said, voice lowering. “watching you fall in love over someone who will leave you? and every time you picked yourself up, you never looked at me. not really. even when i stayed. even when i held you through it all first.”

you didn’t know what to say.

your hands dropped uselessly to your sides. your heart was pounding again, for a very different reason now.

“i loved you,” she whispered. “i—i love you. i’ve been here this whole time, and you never even—i just wanted you to see me.”

her voice broke on the last word.

the apartment was so quiet you could hear the low hum of the refrigerator, the soft hiss of the radiator.

you finally looked up at her.

your voice, when it came, was hoarse. tired.

“…i’m sorry.”

her face crumpled.

you stepped forward, slowly. not to hug her — but to be near, to not leave her alone in this.

“i’m sorry, eunji. you didn’t deserve to wait for someone who couldn’t give you what you wanted.” your voice trembled. “but i still love her. i tried to stop. i did.”

you swallowed.

“but i saw her again, and it’s like—nothing ever left. it’s still her.”

she shook her head, tears now slipping past her lashes, silent and fast.

“i didn’t mean to hurt you,” you added, soft. “but lying to me… taking that choice away from me… that wasn’t fair either.”

eunji’s shoulders shook once — a breath, a sob, maybe both.

and for a long time, neither of you spoke.

just two people, standing in the dim hallway of a too-quiet apartment. one full of regret, the other full of a love that still belonged to someone else.

—-

you zipped your suitcase halfway, then paused.

your arms rested on the edge. your breath hung low in your chest.

the apartment was dim, lit only by the desk lamp in the corner, where its faint yellow glow hit the open drawers, the scattered socks, the half-packed shirts folded too neatly for how tired you were. your shadow shifted as you sat back on your heels, thumb pressed to your ribs like it could slow your heartbeat down.

it had been hours since eunji closed her door behind her.

you didn’t sleep. you couldn’t. not after everything. not with the silence so loud it pressed behind your eyes like a weight.

you had said sorry. over and over. you meant it.

she had cried. she hadn’t yelled, even when she could have. she just listened. and when you finally hugged her goodnight, her fingers trembled against your back. she hadn’t said goodbye. just nodded.

you knew what that meant.

it wouldn’t be the same anymore. and maybe that was fair.

but still, your heart ached.

you stared down at your phone for a long moment. then, finally, you typed.

hey... just wanted to say i talked to eunji tonight.

you hovered. then added:

she told me she liked me. that’s why she never told me about you.

you hesitated — then hit send.

the response came slowly. a full minute passed. then two.

finally, sana replied:

oh...

then:

i didn’t know that. that must’ve been hard for her. and for you.

you pressed your lips together.

then, after another pause, you typed:

i felt sad for her. but i told her she deserves someone who’ll wait for her the way she waited for me. and... i told her i’m sorry. and that i want to learn to love someone else now.

your heart stammered. you stared at the message.

then, softer, you added:

i told her i want to learn to love you.

this time, sana didn’t respond for a while.

meanwhile sana's tired eyes were fluttering open, her breath catching as she sat up, hair mussed, blanket slipping down her shoulder.

your phone vibrated.

you’re serious?

you smiled, fingers warm now.

yeah. if you’re still okay with that.

sana’s reply came faster this time.

are you kidding i’m smiling so hard i look stupid rn

then, a minute later:

let’s start tomorrow pick me up at 10?

you stared at the screen, heart suddenly too full for your chest.

you typed back:

okay. 10. i’ll see you tomorrow.

you didn’t say goodnight. didn’t need to.

the lamp buzzed faintly above you. outside, the city was quiet.

and for the first time since you arrived in seoul — maybe for the first time in years — you finally smiled without doubt.

—-

you knock twice, then once more, softer. the morning's quiet. the hallway still carries a hush from the night. when the door clicks open, it’s like the whole world exhales — and standing there is sana, wearing a long-sleeved blue polo with thin white stripes tucked loosely into light jeans.

you blink. then laugh under your breath.

“you’re kidding,” you say, eyes dragging down her outfit. “we match.”

she stares at you for a second, then bursts into a small laugh — pink already blooming high on her cheeks. “no way.”

you step back a little to show her the full view: same soft denim, same sky-blue shade, sleeves rolled once at the forearm. same understated attempt to look casual. it’s like the universe couldn’t help itself.

“just like hawaii,” you murmur, and it must be the way your voice drops that makes her quiet for a moment, tucking her lip between her teeth before smiling again.

“you ready?” she asks, tilting her head.

you nod, and she grabs her keys. neither of you say it, but the walk is slow. slower than usual. like your feet are afraid of where the sidewalk ends.

the café is quiet this early. just the barista humming, some jazz whispering through ceiling speakers. you order a java chip, and sana asks for an iced americano. the contrast makes you grin.

“haven’t changed at all.”

she sips from her straw with a smirk. “i miss the way you made the americano.."

you find a small table by the window. the street’s bright with summer, the light scattering over her hair, her sleeves, the way she holds her cup with both hands like it anchors her. there’s a silence, but it’s not heavy. it’s careful. a breath between pages.

“i keep thinking,” you start, “that it’s been three years. but this feels like yesterday.”

sana looks up, a little surprised. then: “yeah.”

you stare down at the melted whip of your drink. “like hawaii never ended. like i blinked and suddenly you’re here again.”

“i thought it’d be awkward,” she says quietly. “but it wasn’t. with you, it just… never is.”

you nod, slow. and then, almost as an afterthought, you add, “my flight’s at nine tonight.”

a pause. she doesn’t look at you when she says it.

“i know.”

your gaze lifts. “you know?”

her fingers tighten around her cup. “i mean… nothing. doesn’t matter.”

you don’t press. you want to — your chest twists at the way she shifts her eyes — but something in you says not now. not when the minutes are ticking toward evening. not when this, too, is a kind of goodbye.

after the last sip, you walk her home again. she walks close this time. not quite brushing your arm, but not far.

at her door, she hesitates.

“thanks for today,” she says, and you try not to memorize the way her hair falls into her face.

“yeah,” you smile. “it was perfect.”

you walk away before you can say anything else.

you get home by seven. your suitcase is already by the door. eunji’s waiting with your passport and keys, quiet but steady.

in the taxi, neither of you talk much.

when you reach the airport, she steps out first.

“i’m sorry,” she says again, voice thinner than usual.

you hug her tight, the way you used to when you didn’t know what was coming next.

“you’ll be okay,” you whisper. “you’ll meet someone who waits back.”

“you better text me when you land,” she mutters.

“you better get some sleep.”

you smile. she does too, a small one, then watches you go.

it’s 8:45 pm when you text sana.

i’m here now. airport’s loud. thanks again for earlier. it meant a lot.

there’s no reply. you check again at 8:50. then 8:57.

you sit near your gate, hoodie pulled up, watching people come and go. no notification.

at 9:10, they call final boarding.

you sigh, shoulders heavy, and stand. your feet drag a little.

your phone buzzes once, but it’s a flight update.

you board slowly. last one in line.

someone behind you shouts — a voice, high and clear, feminine.

“wait—!”

you half-turn, but your headphones are in. just another late passenger, probably. you don’t look back.

when the wheels lift, seoul disappears in blue and blur. your phone stays dark.

but your heart — your heart feels full.

just like hawaii.

and this time, you don’t feel like you’re leaving something unfinished.

but even if the timing cracked and shifted — you were lucky enough to find her again.

–-

“i missed you, hawaii, you goddamn—!”

your voice cracks mid-shout as the wind knocks you sideways and the surfboard flies clean out under you. saltwater slams into your face. keoni’s cackling in the distance, the kind of laugh that could peel paint off walls. “yo, language! the ocean hears you!”

you burst up from the water, slick hair clinging to your forehead, arms raised. “i don’t care, keoni! hawaii missed me too!”

keoni rides past with a crooked grin, cutting the waves like he owns them. “hawaii missed you, sure — but not your godawful form.”

you flip him off with both hands, still grinning. your whole body aches from the burn of salt and sun and joy. you haven’t laughed this hard in weeks. your skin is hot, stretched tight across your bones. you're soaked in everything good.

“bite me!” you yelled back, grinning hard, your chest aching with something bright and stupid and real.

you hadn’t laughed like this in weeks.

not since seoul. not since—

you reached the shore, board under your arm, water dripping off your sleeves. and for a moment, as the sun burned high above and the wind kissed your skin, it almost felt like none of it happened. like you imagined her, the airports, the flower, everything.

because the truth was... you never texted sana again.

after the airport. after the flight. you said nothing.

not because you didn’t want to.

and now, with your feet digging into warm sand and your heart still stubborn in your chest, you let it all go — tipped your head back, shouted to the sky:

“i missed you, hawaii!”

and that’s when you heard her laugh.

not in your head.

real.

you turned, squinting into the sun.

and there she was.

barefoot in the sand, wearing a soft white beach dress that clung lightly to her frame. the breeze tugged at the hem. her hair was loose, glowing gold at the ends. she had something behind her back.

and her smile —

oh.

your chest cracked wide open.

she was here.

and now you know why you never texted her back.

because she was already beside you.

you blink water from your lashes. her hair’s longer. cheeks pinked up from the sun. she doesn’t move — not until you’re almost close enough to touch.

“hi, ten out of ten flips earlier by the way.” she says, soft rating your flips when you were surfboarding, as if the day hadn't already shouted it in every way.

you don’t answer at first. you just step forward, dripping and breathless and still stunned, and you hold something out to her — a tiny pink flower, fragile in your fingers.

“come here,” you murmur.

she tilts her head.

you step closer, push back her hair, and gently tuck the flower behind her left ear.

she blinks. her breath catches.

she doesn't say anything. she doesn't need to. she turns, just slightly, lifting her phone. sunlight spills over the shoreline. she snaps a photo — just her, the ocean behind, the flower bright against her hair.

then she posts it.

you both sit down after that, side by side in the sand, knees almost touching. keoni’s still out there, flipping over waves like he’s auditioning for a commercial. you whistle once and he throws you a salute.

your phone buzzes.

m.by__sana just posted a photo.

you tap it. you like it. you’re the first one.

sana turns her head slowly. "you liked it?"

"hell yeah, i liked it. first like. i win."

she chuckles, opening her own phone. the screen lights up with chaos.

chaeyoung: UNNIE YOU SAID YOU WERE GOING ON A DATE NOT INTERNATIONAL ESCAPE??? nayeon: why is your dress WHITE WHAT ARE WE MISSING jihyo: we let you skip practice for a date WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN ANOTHER COUNTRY? jeongyeon: send us the coordinates rn dahyun: marry them or don’t come back. tzuyu: pretty unnie~ mina: just sends a GIF of a slow clap momo: yah, i spat out my ramen when i saw the post..

sana rolls her eyes, locks her phone, and tosses it onto her towel.

“not gonna answer?” you ask.

she shrugs, gaze shifting to the sunset. “maybe later.”

you look at her then. how the orange and pink light reflects in her eyes. how the flower’s still tucked behind her ear. how she hasn’t stopped smiling since she arrived.

she catches you staring. lifts a brow.

“what?”

“nothing,” you murmur. “it’s just—”

you gesture at the sky, the waves, her, all of it.

“it’s beautiful.”

she leans her head on your shoulder, warm and real and solid beside you.

“yeah,” she whispers. “it is.”

and this time, no one was leaving.  no one was late. no one was missing the moment.

because she came.

and this was the ending you both chose.

kino's note — kino will be offline for a while—school begins this week, and the days ahead already feel heavy with numbers and names i haven’t met yet. there’s a mina oneshot/series quietly forming somewhere in the back of my mind. it might take time. thank you for waiting, even when i disappear. 🌙

[tttwiceeluvrr]

vi. i need to want something more (the end)

synopsis: after a rare drunken night, y/n wakes up in bed next to the most untouchable girl at yonsei: karina. she’s immediately thrown into a mess she never wanted, torn between her own moral compass and the undeniable pull of something she doesn’t understand. some lines, once crossed, can never be undone.

w/c: 10k+

warnings: heavy cheating, implied sex, alcohol, smoking, just normal uni stuff, swearingggg, slow burn

a/n: so here it is…was a long time coming; i appreciate all of you who stuck around long enough to see the end it. there will be no fics for awhile as i work on editing my older stuff — figured i need to show those a bit of love and polishing too. this series has so much potential to become more, i’ll keep my ears open in the future. always enjoy reading your takes on this chapter, so please let me know how you feel about it :)

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the light wakes you first. not the usual pale grey cast of a seoul morning, but something softer, whiter. your breath is visible in the sliver of air between your duvet and your face.

the heater’s still warming up — typical. you stay curled beneath the covers a few seconds longer, blinking toward the window, where the light presses through the glass differently now.

you already know.

when you sit up, you’re met with the season’s first snowfall. it’s not heavy yet, still a delicate sheet of white layered over the pavement and trees outside.

the world is slower; even the wind is holding its breath.

you get up barefoot, stepping around the pile of laundry near your desk, your laptop still open from last night. giselle flew back to japan last week and yunjin left a post-it note on your side table saying she was grabbing coffee with ryujin. they’ll probably be out for hours.

you should make coffee, maybe start reading that case brief you’ve avoided all week. instead, you stare out the window a while.

the trees outside are really bare now, snow clinging to every branch like a second skin. you reach for your phone and snap a quick photo.

your fingers hover for a moment before sending it to your parents.

first snow of the season! ❄️

they had invited you to join them in switzerland for the holidays; some rental cabin overlooking a frozen lake, something out of a postcard. you told them you had too much to finish here; that much was true.

the reply comes quickly.

from: dad 👨

beautiful! mum says bundle up. she’s already trying to book you a plane ticket despite your answer still being a firm no. 😂

you smile, a little and your screen dims again.

and then it buzzes.

from: sana 🩵

you still like watching the snow fall from windows?

something shifts in your chest as you stare at her name for a moment — warm and uncertain. before you can think about it too hard, you hit call.

she answers before the second ring.

“hi,” you greet, still watching the snowfall.

“hi,” she replies, voice soft and all. she sounds like she’s speaking from under a warm blanket. “you’re up early.”

“snow woke me.”

“hmm,” she hums. “me too, actually.”

you don’t say anything for a second, just listen to her breathing through the speaker because there’s something grounding about it.

“do you want to come over?”

she pauses, then says: “only if we get breakfast first.”

you smile, small and real. “our usual?”

“of course.”

you end the call and move slowly through your morning — brushing your teeth, pulling on layers, rubbing moisturiser into your face with hands that still feel half asleep. you stare at your reflection for a beat too long; there’s colour in your cheeks from the cold and your hair’s a little flat, but you look more like yourself lately.

or someone you recognise, anyway.

as you zip up your coat, you think of sana. how she’s never asked you to call this anything…or make you feel like you owe her certainty you don’t have.

and still — she shows up.

you think about how easy it would be to keep building this quiet version of love, one morning at a time. back then, you thought maybe the whole world would bend if you just stayed still beside her long enough.

you could get used to whatever this is again.

eventually, a car horn honks twice. when you step outside, the snow crunches beneath your boots. she’s already out of the car, walking toward you with a knit beanie pulled low over her ears. her breath clouds in the air.

the first thing she does is reach for your scarf.

“you still don’t know how to do this properly?” she mutters, unwrapping it halfway to re-loop it snug around your neck. “every year, it’s the same issue.”

“you’re just controlling,” you mumble, lips chapped and numb.

“you would freeze to death without me,” she shakes her head, focusing on the knot. her fingers are cold when it brushes against your neck.

there’s snow caught in her lashes and her cheeks are pink from the cold.

her hair is pulled back loosely, a few strands stuck to her collar. and she’s not looking at you. she’s still focused on that damn scarf. you study her face up close; how her brows knit together in concentration and how beautiful she is when she doesn’t know you’re looking.

“you’re pretty.”

she blinks and looks up; the corners of her mouth twitching. “don’t.”

you grin. “just saying.”

“you’re annoying.” she tugs your scarf tighter and gently shoves your shoulder before turning to the car. you follow, heart warmer than your gloves. “come on.”

the drive to itaewon is short and mostly quiet. the windows fog slightly and she draws a little heart in the glass with her knuckle at a red light. she doesn’t look at you when she does it.

“so,” you begin, glancing at her, “you could be in australia right now; drinking cocktails by a pool. why are you here in seoul?”

she glances over with a smile. “i could be.”

“so why aren’t you?”

she exhales through her nose, barely smiling. “because you’re here.”

“right,” you answer, cheeks flushing with warmth. and it’s enough.

that silences you, looking out the window as the snow settles along rooftops. your chest aches a little and it’s not in the way it used to; not with longing, but just with how much space she still takes up, even now.

grazia is tucked between two boutiques, all brick and wood and fogged-up windows. it’s warm and smells like cardamom and coffee inside. the waiter leads you to a quiet table near the back; you end up ordering pancakes and sana gets eggs on toast with extra mushrooms.

you talk about books — what you’ve been reading, what you haven’t had time to. she tells you about a ridiculous rumour she overheard at a party last week: something about taehyung and a chaebol heir (not jennie this time) who may or may not be fake.

it’s ridiculous.

after a pause, she stirs sugar into her coffee and asks. “so…have you decided?”

you look up at her, then down at your plate. “about the job?”

she nods.

“i think i’m gonna take it,” you answer, running your fingers through your hair. “taehyung’s dad offered me a contract starting next month. i’d be handling mid-scale portfolios. nothing glamorous, but…”

“it’s a start,” she finishes.

“yeah…a really good one.”

she smiles. “i’m glad — you’ll do so well.”

she stirs her drink once more, something milky and sweet. she’s dressed down today; soft turtleneck, old jeans, hair tied back with a velvet scrunchie that doesn’t match.

you rest your cheek on your hand and watch her; she looks comfortable.

“you’re staring again,” she chuckles without looking up and the sound makes your head all warm and fuzzy.

you clear your throat. “you’re always stirring your drink for no reason.

she grins. “i’m thinking.”

“about what?”

“you.”

you scoff into your coffee. “try something harder.”

she reaches across the table to steal a piece of your banana bread, doesn’t bother asking. you let her. then, more softly, she adds: “i’m really proud of you.”

“what for?”

“the job,” she mumbles. “with taehyung’s dad. that’s huge…everyone knows the kim family doesn’t let anyone in so easily.”

“it’s honestly just an entry contract.”

“it’s still a big deal,” she insists. “don’t downplay it. you worked hard and earned it.”

you press your hands around your mug and let the silence linger before asking: “and what about you?”

she lifts her gaze as you watch her carefully.

“when are you taking over your empire?”

sana snorts. “don’t call it that.”

“it is that…your family owns half of tokyo and most of osaka.”

“i mean when you put it like that,” she mutters. “it is…a lot.”

you raise a brow. “so? what’s the plan?”

she laughs, soft and brief — but you keep note of how her shoulders tense.

you don’t press, not yet. you just keep your voice even. “you know it’s coming.”

she leans back slightly, her fingers tracing the edge of her cup. “i know. my dad’s been…bringing it up more often lately. the board’s already making decisions ten years from now.”

her eyes lift to meet yours.

you try to sound gentle; encouraging. “so why not?”

she shrugs, looking away now. “because i’d have to be in japan…full-time.”

she hasn’t said it so plainly before.

you let the silence sit long enough, watching the way she presses her lips together, like she’s already prepared herself for this to hurt.

perhaps the part of you that’s been too afraid to name this…whatever this is — has been waiting for this conversation all along.

“it’s not that i don’t want to,” she adds, quieter now. “but i can’t leave you. not like this. not when we just…started again.”

she meets your gaze once more. there’s something in her expression that makes your chest ache. it’s not doubt.

it’s love, stretched thin by time and distance and the inevitability of her life pulling her somewhere you can’t follow — not yet.

and maybe this is what it means to be grown. to sit across from someone you love, knowing love might not be enough to keep things from changing.

“i’d never ask you to stay just because of me.”

“i know you wouldn’t.”

“but i also wouldn’t hold it against you if you needed to go.”

she exhales, blinking down at her hands. “i don’t want to go if it means leaving this.”

“we’re not a place,” you tell her gently. “we’re not a time either. we’re just…us. maybe we’ll always be.”

you reach for her hand across the table and she lets you take it. her fingers are cold but steady, thumb rubbing against the inside of your wrist like she’s trying to remember how to hold on without gripping too tightly.

you think: if this is all we have right now, i’ll take it. and across the table, she looks at you like she’s thinking the same thing.

as you walk back to the car, she slips her hand into your coat pocket; not your hand. just your pocket.

you laugh at her, feeling a bit lighter now. “what are you doing?”

she shrugs, looking forward. “just making sure you’re warm.”

you don’t reply, sliding your hand over hers, not lacing your fingers, just covering them because her palm is cold. you press your thumb into the space between her knuckles and feel her lean a little closer as you walk.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the sound of your door clicking open feels louder than it should. your body aches from sitting too long in the same position, neck stiff, legs heavy and your brain mush after hours of reading case law. you drag yourself into the main living area where the scent of cheap popcorn lingers and twilight is somehow playing again — muted blue and green tones flickering across the television screen.

bella is mid-monologue; the sky is always grey in that fuckass town.

yunjin and ryujin are curled up on opposite ends of the couch, each with a throw blanket and a half-empty bowl of snacks between them. yunjin’s legs are draped over ryujin’s lap and they’re blth eating crispy m&ms (because they’re the best) like it’s the end of the world.

you drop onto the armchair beside them.

“how many times do you guys need to watch this a year?” you ask, voice still rough from not speaking all afternoon.

ryujin doesn’t look away from the screen. “you’re uncultured.”

“she just doesn’t get it,” yunjin agrees, nudging you with her socked foot. “she never got the team jacob to team edward pipeline.”

“i was studying contract law while you two watched vampire melodrama,” you grumble.

“that was your mistake,” ryujin shrugs, refusing to look away from the screen. “and so the lion fell in love with the lamb.”

you sit with them a while, with bits of and pieces of them mimicking lines and a type of silence that only happens when people know each other too well to need to fill it. it’s almost dinner time, you realise. you probably haven’t had a proper meal since breakfast.

yunjin turns to you like she’s reading your thoughts. “so, what do you want to do for dinner?”

you hesitate. “uhh, i’m actually going to sana’s soon.”

ryujin raises her brows without comment. yunjin shifts slightly, pulling her knees to her chest.

“movie night?” she asks, a little teasing, but gentle.

you nod, reaching down to adjust your sock. “yeah, she said she found this old japanese film she wants me to watch.”

“what’s going on with you two anyway?” ryujin looks at you. “it’s been a while now.”

you pause because putting it into words makes it feel more solid.

“we’re…good,” you say slowly. “we don’t talk about what it is. but it’s been really good.”

yunjin hums softly. “and…have you heard from karina?”

her name hits like a stone through still water, your shoulders tensing without meaning to. you haven’t thought about her in ages.

not really, anyway. not since early winter, when snow was just beginning to settle and you were still getting used to the way sana folded your blankets and made you tea before you even asked.

after that dinner scene, jimin just simply vanished. no texts or awkward sightings. not even a whisper from giselle, who always managed to mention her in passing before.

and you didn’t chase it. perhaps you were too tired…or maybe you were finally learning how to let silence be what it was.

still, the name makes something flicker inside your chest. it’s no longer pain, not anymore…just something dull and hasn’t fully left.

“no,” you finally answer. “i haven’t heard anything.”

yunjin fiddles with a popcorn kernel. “well, she’s in seoul, i saw her on ningning’s story last week. she was in the background.”

ryujin says nothing for once, she just reaches for the remote and lowers the volume a bit.

your stomach twists. “really?”

“looked like a rooftop thing. not much though, was just a glimpse.”

you nod, mouth dry. “guess she didn’t end up going to europe with jaewook after all.”

“yeah, guess so,” yunjin smiles at you, the way she always does when she wants to comfort you but doesn’t know the words to say.

you push yourself off the chair and stand. “i should get going though.”

ryujin gives you a slight wave. “tell sana we said hi. and look after yourself. and your heart.”

you pull on your coat, scarf still a mess from how it was folded. your bag’s got a change of clothes stuffed at the bottom and a book you haven’t opened. as you walk out into the cold, your breath clouds in the air and the sky has that faint blue cast of early evening.

sana’s apartment is warm, smells faintly of citrus and something boiling on the stove. she answers the door in a navy jumper and fuzzy socks, her hair damp like she just stepped out of the shower. you blink once and feel your chest ease.

“hi,” she grins, already reaching for your scarf, unravelling it to untie it properly now.

you laugh. “seriously?”

“you’ll thank me later.”

you follow her inside, boots off, bag dropped near the shoe rack. she’s already set up her bedroom —blankets stacked and mismatched pyjamas folded on the edge. you change slowly, the clothes a little big on you, the sleeves brushing your knuckles. she doesn’t say anything when she sees you wearing her shirt, but she smiles like something in her has softened.

you settle into the blankets while she brings over miso ramen and sushi on two trays; simple, warm, comforting.

she really insists on playing an old japanese film she watched once with her mum. it’s black and white and slow-moving, all long glances and quiet music. halfway through, your head finds her shoulder and eventually, her chest.

and somewhere near the end, your eyes start to slip closed. you don’t mean to fall asleep. but sana’s warmth is steady, her breathing’s a weird kind of comfort and her hand has found yours under the blanket.

when you stir awake again, the room is darker. the credits are rolling in soft kanji across the screen. she hasn’t moved.

you lift your head slightly and find her staring at you. “were you watching me?”

she smiles, lazy and unbothered. “a little.”

“creep.”

“you’re peaceful when you sleep.”

you groan and bury your face in her arm. “don’t look at me like that.”

she laughs quietly. “and you’re warm, i didn’t want to move.”

you stay there a while longer, the silence easier now. then something tugs at you. “i’m sorry.”

she doesn’t respond right away. “about what?”

“about how we’re still…like this,” your voice is small. “no labels, no real plan — i really need to fix myself.”

she lifts a hand to push your hair back, thumb brushing your temple. “you don’t need fixing, y/n. not for me. i love you the way you are now. and i’ll still love you when that changes.”

you exhale shakily, not sure if it’s relief or fear that floods your chest.

she squeezes your hand to ground you.

“you know when i was a kid,” she adds after a moment, her fingers gently playing with your hair. “i used to imagine running away.

you look up at her. “why?”

“not because i wanted to disappear,” she says softly. “i just wanted to choose who i came back for.”

you don’t say anything.

you just press your face into her neck, grip tightening around her waist while listening to the rhythm of her breathing until you fall asleep again…because maybe that’s what this is. not the end, not even the beginning.

it’s her coming back. and this time, you’re here to open the door for her.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the suit bag hangs on the edge of your wardrobe, unzipped and half-open, like it’s waiting to be taken seriously. inside are five options. none of which you picked. sana’s stylist had dropped them off earlier that morning, her usual chirpy self making you try on half of them while sana watched from the bed, cup of coffee balanced on her knee.

now it’s dusk and you’ve been through three shirts, three full outfit changes and a minor crisis about the perfect sock colour. the room smells like sandalwood and setting lotion. your window’s open just slightly, letting in the bite of the air, that particular cold that only ever feels sharp in late december.

sana’s standing behind you, hair already done —glossy, parted perfectly with the ends curling. she’s wearing a black suit, white shirt buttoned down enough to make you look twice. or three times. the fabric clings at her waist and loosens again at her hips.

it’s unfair. criminal, even…to look that good.

you’re standing in front of the mirror, adjusting the cuff of a white shirt that isn’t yours.

“this one’s too tight,” you complain, tugging at the collar. “i look like i’m going to cry at prom.”

“you always look like that,” she replies, flicking through jackets on hangers. “it’s part of your charm.”

you glare at her through the mirror and she laughs at your own expense without bothering to look up.

you’re staring.

of course you are.

“you’re staring at me again,” she says, not even looking up.

“you look ridiculous,” you reply.

“that’s not what your face is saying.” she lifts the black lapel of a suit jacket and gives you a side glance, smug. “should we match, bub?”

you cross the room before you even decide to. she’s still smiling when you reach her, but it drops slightly — just enough to tell you she knows.

you don’t think.

you’re already up before she can finish her sentence. your hand finds her waist, and then her back, and then her mouth. the kiss lands hard and sure, pulling her in until her spine meets the wall beside your wardrobe. she lets out a surprised sound that turns into a low laugh against your lips when your hands grip her tighter than you mean to.

she tastes like spearmint and skin warmed by sunlight. everything else fades — your open window, the hum of the street below, the muted rustle of ryujin and yunjin bickering in the hallway.

your entire world narrows to the sound of her breathing, quick and uneven, her hands slipping beneath your shirt; not greedy, never, just holding you in place.

when you finally pull away, you’re still gently cupping her face as she blinks slowly, breath catching.

“you’re such an ass,” she starts, voice rough. “you’re really going to do that an hour before i introduce you to my entire bloodline?”

“hmm,” you murmur, forehead pressed to hers. “seemed like the right time.”

she exhales a laugh and shoves your shoulder lightly, but she doesn’t move away. her lips are redder now, eyes much darker. you like how she looks like this — just a little undone.

“you’re the one in a suit,” you continue, a shit-eating grin plastered on your face. “this is your fault.”

she kisses you again — just once, before tapping your chest. “grey suit. last one on the rack. wear the white shirt with the pearl buttons.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you sure?”

“you’ll make everyone nervous,” she confirms, unbuttoning the shirt you just complained about. “it’s perfect.”

when you finally walk out of your room — now dressed, hair styled and tie slightly crooked on purpose, ryujin and yunjin are waiting in the living room in matching red dresses that clearly weren’t planned but still managed to look coordinated.

yunjin looks up from her phone. “are you two done making out?”

sana’s behind you, still adjusting your collar from the back. “oh,” she says lightly. “what gave it away?”

they groan in unison, ryujin grabbing a cushion to half-heartedly throw at you. “disgusting.”

“embarrassing,” yunjin adds.

you just roll your eyes, cheeks still warm.

the minatozaki family meet every year in seoul a few days before christmas, no matter how scattered they are across time zones or industries. they are old money, after all, operating like a boardroom with laughter; polite, but rarely without genuine warmth.

it’s all carefully curated holiday cards, biannual art acquisitions and a shared family lawyer who’s probably been with them longer than most cousins have been alive. and they’re big on tradition, binding them like a woven thread across generations.

sana once told you that missing the family holiday party would be a bigger scandal than missing a wedding of the year. no one has ever dared skip it — not even the cousin who got stranded in switzerland one year; he video called in wearing a tux.

the venue this year is a five-star hotel in gangnam; just one of those buildings with glass facades and understated signage. as soon as you walk inside, the ballroom is glowing with golden lights and crystal fixtures, the chandeliers dimmed to a soft glitter. waiters move between clusters of people with trays of champagne and tiny canapés.

she walks beside you, hand in yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. you hear ryujin swear while yunjin nervously fidgets around. her other hand rests lightly on your lower back as she steers you through the room, the guests are all family, more or less: great-uncles and cousins and elders you can’t quite place.

everyone already knows. there’s no guessing involved. they all smile at you politely, a few with surprise but no one dares to question your presence.

her mother hugs you as soon as she sees you, still smelling faintly of lavender and expensive tea.

“finally,” she sighs in relief, smiling. “we were starting to think you were imaginary.”

her father smiles approvingly while eyeing your blazer. “you look very sharp, you wear the colour well.”

you thank him, a little awkwardly, and sana leans in to whisper, “he only says that to people he really likes.”

you laugh, brushing her fingers with yours.

throughout the evening, relatives come and go in waves. they ask what you’re doing after graduation, if you’ve thought about law firms abroad, if you would consider working in japan. you answer each one as politely as you can and they nod like they’re taking mental notes.

sana’s grip never wavers. this is the difference.

with her, there’s no hesitation. she doesn’t shrink you and make you feel like something to be hidden. she says: this is y/n like that means something…it has to.

you think about that as the night goes on. how strange and comforting it is, not to be the shadow in someone else’s story. she’s proud. of you. and the whole room knows it.

then, somewhere between dessert and after-dinner drinks, an uncle announces the annual family photo. the photographer’s already setting up near the grand staircase, light stands flaring against the high ceilings.

you start to step back, figuring this part isn’t for you, when she tugs you gently by the wrist.

“and where do you think you’re going?” she asks, an eyebrow raised in that demanding tone too.

you glance at her. “i figured i’d stay out of the frame.”

“don’t be stupid,” she shakes her head, tone now soft, not scolding.

she brings you forward, weaving through her cousins and uncles, until her mother sees you both and waves you in closer. the photographer arranges everyone once again, gesturing toward the centre of the front row.

sana takes your hand and leads you there — right beside her, between her and her mother like you’ve always belonged.

“this okay?” she murmurs.

you nod slowly.

“good,” she fixes your collar, smooths your jacket, then slips her hand into yours again.

her father smiles at you two and her mother wraps an arm around your waist like it’s second nature.

when the photo is taken, sana’s thumb gently brushes against your knuckles. you’ve never felt more seen in your life.

later on, sana excuses herself to the bathroom and you’re suddenly cornered by ryujin and yunjin near the dessert table. they both have shit-eating grins on their faces like they’ve been here before.

“so,” ryujin begins, popping up beside you with a glass of wine, “you’re marrying another heir of a billion-dollar company? what’s this obsession with rich people? when i said ‘eat the rich’, i didn’t mean in a literal sense.”

you nearly choke on a piece of almond tart. “what the hell are you on about this time?”

“we didn’t realise,” yunjin perches in from the other side. “like, you know, she had this vibe of maxed-out platinum card and four overdue bills she refuses to open.”

“i thought that girl was dangerously living beyond her meanest,” ryujin mutters. “like…’it’s crippling, i’m gonna run away eventually’ kind of debt.”

“and giselle used to pray you never had to cover any of her bills,” yunjin laughs. “she was scared for you.”

“you’re all idiots,” you say, but your cheeks are warm. you sip your wine and glance around the room — gold, velvet, soft laughter under chandeliers.

“seriously,” yunjin continues, nudging you. “how does it feel?”

you pause, thinking about it. “honestly? it feels…nice. to belong in the room, be held like this isn’t something anyone’s ashamed of.”

they go quiet.

and then ryujin offers you a mini tart she already bit once. “you earned it.”

you roll your eyes and take it anyway. you’re halfway through your first glass of champagne when nayeon somehow ends up in front of you. ryujin and yunjin shyly greet her before running away to the bar.

“well, well,” she says, appearing at your elbow like a headline. “if it isn’t little top-of-her-class.”

you nearly choke. “hello to you too, nayeon.”

“you didn’t think you’d escape me, did you?” she laughs, pulling you into a hug. she still smells like endless paperwork. “look at you — looking all grown.”

“you’re not still in that securities firm, are you?”

“worse: corporate advisory. mina’s still keeping me sane.”

as if summoned, mina appears beside her, dressed in an ivory pantsuit and the kind of earrings that could probably pay your rent.

“hey,” she smiles, eyes warm. “it’s really good to see you.”

“you too,” you say honestly. “both of you.”

nayeon leans in. “we always knew you and sana were going to find your way back to each other. she was such a mess about you in undergrad.”

they were two of sana’s closest friends at yonsei. both a few years older than you and practically royalty in their own right; effortlessly composed and always surrounded by people who wanted to be close to them — or be them.

you used to see them around often when you and sana were first getting close. they never treated you unkindly…in fact, nayeon always greeted you with a loud “oh, you again?” and mina would smile quietly, handing you a drink like you already belonged. they were your seniors in every way: in age; in experience; in the kinds of heartbreaks and head starts that come with growing up too fast in worlds you barely feel like you belong in.

even now, years later, the sight of them still pulls something warm and nostalgic from your chest. they remind you of a different time — the nights you stood by sana’s side…feeling small but safe, never knowing just how much she would come to mean to you years down the line.

“i was not,” sana says, appearing behind you with two plates of dessert.

“please,” nayeon rolls her eyes. “she used to leave dinners just to call you and then cry about how complicated everything was.”

“used to?” mina murmurs, eyebrow raised. “i think the streak ended, what — last year?”

you give sana a look. “so i’ve heard.”

she hands you a plate and shrugs. “they’re exaggerating.”

“you used to leave parties to sit in stairwells and call her.”

“i was dramatic.”

“you cried.”

she waves them off, then glances at you with a crooked grin. “they’re jealous.”

“of what?”

“that you’re the first person i’ve ever brought here.”

“what?” you blink in disbelief, mouth already full of something sweet and expensive. “no dates before me?”

“not here,” she repeats. “this place is family.”

“so i’m special.”

she rolls her eyes, a teasing smile appearing in the corners of her mouth. “you literally dumped me and i’m still here, so yeah.”

you nudge her, she bumps your shoulder back.

mina watches you both with a quiet smile. “i’m glad you’re here, y/n. you’re both good for each other.”

it takes you a second to absorb that because you do. for the first time in years, maybe ever, you’re in a room full of people who know each other’s names, whose approval isn’t cautious or polite but warm and unconditional — and you’re not being hidden.

it’s late by the time the car rolls through empty streets. the city lights pass like slow waves against the windows. you’re both a little buzzed from wine, shoes kicked off, blazers draped in your laps.

sana’s fingers are still laced with yours, she looks softer now. her voice quieter as she talks to you, like the world is shrinking back to just the two of you.

your hand rests lightly on her thigh, thumb tracing slow circles through the fabric of her trousers.

“can i ask you something?” you murmur.

“you’re allowed,” she replies, tilting her head toward you.

“so why have you not brought anyone to this party?”

her brow lifts, leaning her head back against the seat. “honestly?”

you nod.

“you’re the first,” she begins to explain. “because you scare me a little, you never asked to be here — you just…showed up and made space without needing to take any.”

you stare at her, a little breathless.

she turns to look at you fully, her expression is open. “it’s always been you, even when it wasn’t.”

you swallow hard.

the car still moves quietly through the city, lights passing over the windows in slow, golden waves. and you think, for the first time in a long time, that you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

it’s christmas day and sana’s family home is lit like something from an old winter painting. the snow clings to the trees and lines the edges of the roof like icing. and there’s warmth in every room inside; everything made out of oak in that traditional japanese sense.

you’ve never had a christmas like this.

there are matching slippers at the door, monogrammed napkins and the kind of table setting that makes you hesitate before sitting down. the candles flicker low between you all, flames catching on the wine glasses as her father lifts his to inspect the pour.

he sits at the head of the table, sleeves rolled, wine glass already half full. “not too much,” he chuckles, topping yours off. “don’t want you falling asleep before dessert.”

“no promises,” you reply, and he laughs louder; shoulders shaking and all

it’s just the four of you. no cousins, no extended family or staff pacing in the background. sana sits beside you, ankles crossed under the table, her hand brushing your thigh every now and then like she’s checking that you’re still here.

“your parents must miss you,” her mum says, spooning rice into her own bowl. “have you called them yet?”

you shake your head. “not yet, i was waiting until things quieted down.”

“call them now,” sana says softly, nudging your foot under the table. “you can put it on speaker.”

you hesitate, but her mum is already nodding. “that would be great, we would love to say hello.”

your phone is in your pocket so you fish it out, glancing at the time — still early evening in switzerland. you press call. the dial tone hums once, then twice and then your mum picks up.

“merry christmas, darling!”

“hi, mum,” you greet, smiling. “you’re on speaker.”

“oh?”

“i’m with sana’s parents,” you explain. “they wanted to say hi.”

sana’s dad leans forward. “merry christmas, hope you’re both having the best time,” he waves, warm and clear.

you can hear the delight in your mother’s voice. “oh, how lovely! thank you for hosting our daughter this year. we were sorry she couldn’t come with us.”

“she’s very welcome here,” her mum adds. “we’re happy to have her.”

sana chimes in next, her voice light. “hi, mr and mrs y/l/n. thanks for raising the most stubborn woman alive.”

your father’s voice comes through faintly in the background. “you’ve got your hands full, then.”

they all laugh and you feel your face warm. it feels good.

“we’ll let you go enjoy dinner,” your mum adds after a minute more of cheerful noise and small talk. “we’ll talk properly tomorrow.”

you hang up and sana squeezes your knee gently beneath the table.

her father’s already mid-sip of his wine when he says, “so, this firm you’re joining — under the kim family?”

“yes, taehyung’s dad offered me a placement earlier in the year.”

he snorts. “sounds about right; that man’s sharp. got his claws into you before the others could.”

you laugh, shaking your head. “he was persuasive.”

“a good sign,” he nods, raising his glass. “people chase talent, it means you’re doing something right if you’ve got one of south korea’s richest men to persuade you.”

you hum and it settles over you: the warmth, the acceptance, the easy rhythm of it all. there’s no tension in your shoulders and you don’t feel the need to read between words or brace yourself for correction — it’s a slow meal with people who see you as someone worth being proud of.

not tolerated nor excused, but welcomed with open arms.

dinner finishes with tea and fruits. sana’s mum brings out small velvet boxes and pushes one toward you. you hesitate, glance at sana, who’s smiling gently.

“we said no gifts.”

“and we ignored it,” her mum replies.

you open it carefully.

inside is a watch; silver and elegant, the weight of it immediately grounding as you glance at the name richard mille.

jesus christ, you thought.

beside it, wrapped in a velvet slip, is a gold pen with your initials carved at the top of it.

you’ve seen something like this pen before. on sana’s desk, in her hand, tucked into her notebook. she mentioned she got it at eighteen.

you look up, words forming slowly. “this is too much.”

“nonsense,” her father groans. “you’re part of our lives now; get used to it.”

you don’t trust your voice enough to speak, so you nod, fingers curling around the velvet like it’ll anchor you.

they don’t need thanks drawn out and scripted; you know their kindness doesn’t ask for anything in return and that’s the part that stings the most. you never knew you could be carried like this without having to earn it.

and when the table’s been cleared and the kitchen grows quiet and her parents disappear up the stairs with soft goodnights and kind glances, it’s just you and sana again — on the living room floor, legs stretched toward the fireplace, two glasses of wine resting on the table between you.

the fire crackles quietly, the only real sound in the room. you can still hear music faintly from the kitchen; jazz, maybe, but the rest of the world has dimmed.

your head leans slightly against her shoulder. she doesn’t move.

you’re full in every sense of the word. full of food, of warmth, of something else you haven’t named yet. and then your phone buzzes.

you feel the vibration in your pocket before the ring even begins.

it’s faint, easily ignorable, except something in your body registers it before your mind does. you shift slightly, ease your hand into your pocket, still curled up beside her in front of the fire.

the screen lights up and her name flashes once.

karina.

the air feels colder all of a sudden. your stomach twists, a quiet clench that catches you off guard. beside you, sana stirs slightly but she doesn’t say anything, she doesn’t need to. she sees the screen.

you stand up, too quickly.

“i’ll just — be a minute,” you murmur.

you stand without a word and she doesn’t look up.

you step out onto the balcony, sliding the door closed behind you. the air is cold against your neck, your breath blooming white in the dark.

and you answer before you can talk yourself out of it. “hello?”

her voice is exactly how you remember it — low, careful, like it’s measuring the silence between your words before they’re even spoken.

“hi, merry christmas, y/n.”

you close your eyes for a moment, let the wind bite at your face. “merry christmas, jimin.”

there’s a pause. you hear the hum of something in the background and neither of you speak for a second.

“i wasn’t sure if i should call, but you crossed my mind. i guess…you still do,” she continues, her voice is so small it barely carries on top of the breeze. “but i didn’t want to let the day pass without…saying it. i know you were excited for christmas.”

your hand curls around the edge of the railing, feeling the ache before it even takes shape. it’s not a painful, but more like the kind that’s been dulled by time but not erased.

“how are you?” you ask, unsure what to say next.

jimin exhales a shaky breath. “i’ve been better, but my parents are still asking if i’ve managed to win you back,” she lets out something close to a laugh, but it doesn’t reach her chest. “they say it like it’s a job — think they really wanted to know you more.”

you let the silence settle for a moment. it’s familiar, but it doesn’t hurt the same way anymore. you didn’t need to know any of that; no longer have the right to.

“how’s…jaewook?”

she’s quiet for a second too long. “umm, yeah, we broke up the day after that night i saw you. i think i knew i couldn’t keep lying to him and myself after that.”

you chew the inside of your cheek, the words settling slowly, heavy but unsurprising.

“i’m sorry,” you croak out.

“don’t be,” she replies. “i should’ve ended it a long time ago.”

the wind whistles faintly between the railing bars. you adjust your weight, heart beating a little harder than you would like.

“are you happy?” she asks; it’s barely more than a whisper. “with her?”

your breath catches with how much weight the questoon carries. you look through the frosted glass, into the house where sana still sits, curled into the couch, waiting patiently — warm and steady.

“yeah,” you reply after a second. “we’re…taking things slow. but it’s real; she’s real.”

she doesn’t reply right away either. when she does, her voice is rougher than before. “good.”

you believe her, mostly, or at least you want to.

“i’m glad,” she continues, though there’s something behind it…like she’s letting go of something without knowing if it’s the last time.

the silence comes back, thicker this time.

“thank you for calling,” you tell her, meaning it. “it’s really good to hear from you.”

you hear her exhale, something like a smile buried in it. “take care of yourself.”

“you too.”

the call ends.

you watch the snow fall for a few more seconds, then slide the phone back into your pocket, letting the cold seep into your skin just to feel everything clearly.

it was kind, that call. necessary, maybe. but you don’t feel unsteady and you don’t feel torn.

it feels…finished.

sana looks up as you return. she doesn’t move, but her face has changed, ever so slightly — like something pulled rigidly just beneath her eyes.

you feel it settle between you like a window left open just a little too long.

“if you ever want to go back to her,” she suddenly voices out, tone sorrowful: “i won’t hold it against you, i knew what i was getting myself into. and you don’t owe me anything at all.”

your heart drops as you stare at the fire for a second longer before you speak. “sana, baby, i want to keep moving with you.”

the words sit between you, unfurling slowly. she nods. once. but you can see how tightly she’s holding herself together.

under the couch, you pull out the small box you had been keeping for her. it’s not wrapped well and the corners are uneven and you had to tape the bottom twice because you suck at wrapping gifts — but you place it on her lap anyway.

“this is for you.”

she looks at you, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. she doesn’t reach for the gift right away. instead, she unwraps it slowly, fingers catching at the tape.

inside is a square canvas — the edges still a little rough where the paint dried too fast. it’s the two of you, sitting on a bench in that quiet park from that night. backs facing the viewer, just two figures with shoulders leaning in, hair caught in a breeze. nothing fancy, but it’s unmistakably you and her.

you wait while she stares at it.

then: “you painted this?”

you nod. your voice shakes a little. “a few weeks ago.”

her eyes flicker up. they’re glossy now and it breaks something open in your chest. she doesn’t speak for a long time, just holding the frame in both hands like she’s afraid it’ll slip.

you shift a little closer.

“i know we didn’t take a photo that day, we were both too drunk,” you explain, a smile on your face. “but i remember it. i remember thinking that if anything in my life ever felt like home again, it would be that moment — us under the stars, quietly figuring ourselves out.”

her breath hitches.

“i’m still scared,” you admit. “i still think i might mess this up. i still wake up sometimes not sure if i deserve any of it. but i want to try. you’re so, so, so important to me, sana, i never want to lose you again.”

the tears spill slowly, she doesn’t even bother hiding them.

“you’re such a jerk,” she mumbles through a soft laugh. “you couldn’t have said all that before the wine?”

you smile, a little helpless. “sorry.”

she puts the painting down carefully and reaches for your hand. “you won’t lose me, not this time.”

you pull her in gently and she lets you, arms wrapping tight around your waist, the painting resting carefully against her side.

“you matter to me,” you whisper. “always.”

“i know,” she says. “i just needed to hear you say it.”

and so you do. again and again.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

you wake to the dull hum of your phone vibrating on the nightstand. you don’t reach for it straight away — your eyes are still adjusting. and sana’s breath is warm against your neck, she shifts slightly, murmuring something in her sleep and her arm curls tighter around your waist.

the screen glows again. this time you blink fully awake and glance over.

but the sound doesn’t stop. it pulses again —persistent. you shift, groggy, reaching toward the nightstand where your phone is lighting up.

karina is calling…

“the fuck?” you let out a quiet sigh through your nose, staring at the screen like maybe, if you’re still enough, it’ll stop ringing.

it doesn’t. the digits blur slightly — 2:31 a.m.

sana stirs behind you. “who is it?” her voice is still caught in sleep, soft and heavy.

“it’s…jimin,” you mumble out in slight disbelief. “she’s calling, should i answer?”

you half expect her to roll away, to go quiet like last time. but instead, she rests her hand against your shoulder and says, gently: “answer it.”

you turn to her. “are you sure?”

she nods; her hair’s messy against the pillow, eyes barely open, but she still offers you a small, understanding smile. “i know what it’s like…to be the one who never gets the call back.”

your heart aches at that, but you nod and slide off the bed quietly, grabbing your hoodie from the chair as you step out into the lounge room.

you swipe to answer. “hello, jimin?”

you’re already halfway down the hallway, bare feet padding softly against the hardwood, heart thumping as you shut the bedroom door behind you.

her voice cracks instantly through the speaker. “you answered…i wasn’t sure.”

it’s messy — slurred, uneven, like her tongue’s too slow to keep up with her mouth. there’s noise in the background. a car maybe, or the wind, it’s nothing solid.

“are you okay?” you ask. “where are you?”

“i don’t know,” she breathes. you can hear her sniffle. “i didn’t want to call, i just — i couldn’t not. fuck, i sound so stupid.”

your brows furrow, concern rising. you drop onto the couch, pressing the phone harder to your ear.

“jimin, what’s going on? are you out?”

“i wanted to see you,” she answers, voice trembling. “i keep wanting to see you. i keep seeing you. it’s like — everything i do reminds me of you and i don’t even know if you care anymore. do you still care?”

you sit down on the couch, rubbing at your temple. “what more do you want from me?”

“you,” she says it so fast like it’s always been waiting behind her teeth. “i want you back.”

you close your eyes. “karina…”

“don’t, don’t say it like that, don’t say it in that tone like you pity me.”

you run a hand through your hair, staring at the dark screen of the tv in front of you. “you’re drunk, can you please send me your location?”

“you still care?” she asks, voice wobbling. “you still care about me, don’t you?”

you don’t answer that. instead, you repeat, firmer this time, “send me your location. please.”

she sniffs, quiet for a moment. then the familiar ping of a map drops into your phone. “you didn’t answer me…”

“stay on the line,” you demand. and she doesn’t argue.

you get up from the couch, walking back toward the bedroom. sana’s sitting up now, pulling her hair back into a bun. the bedside lamp is on, casting soft yellow against the walls. she looks tired, but she’s already pointing at her bag.

“keys are in the front pocket,” she gestures you over with a sleepy, understanding smile.

you lean in, press your mouth to her temple, then her cheek, her skin warm and soft against your lips. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t be,” she cups your jaw gently. “all i want is for you to bring her home safe.”

“i’ll be back soon,” you whisper.

“i know.”

you slip your shoes on at the door, phone still pressed to your ear as you speak quietly to jimin, who’s gone quiet but hasn’t hung up.

“hey,” you say. “i’m coming to get you, okay?”

there’s no response at first. then: “okay.”

the street is cold and quiet, light snow from the previous night still melting in uneven patches along the curb. you get in the car, engine humming to life with your hand tight on the wheel. you glance once at the rearview mirror and try not to think too hard about where this night is headed.

because even now — even with sana asleep in your bed, with your life finally steady, with love that doesn’t hurt — you’re still driving out into the dark when jimin calls and a part of you hates that you always will.

the streets are empty this late. seoul feels softer somehow, the edges dulled by the chill and the quiet. traffic lights flicker through amber and red, casting slow glows against the frost on your windscreen. the heater hums low.

while jimin’s still on the line, she’s quiet now, only the sound of her sniffling breaking through. you don’t say anything. there’s nothing left to say in the silence and yet you stay on the call.

you drive with one hand on the wheel, the other holding the phone to your ear, her breath moving in and out like waves.

the location leads you to a quiet side street near a convenience store. a line of taxis sits idle nearby, lights off, drivers probably asleep. you see her before she sees you — curled up on a bench, knees pulled tight to her chest, hair tousled and damp. her coat’s buttoned wrong and she looks smaller than you remember.

the sight of her like this does something strange to your chest — splits it, gently, like an old wound reopening along its scar line. you hadn’t realised how deeply the memory of her lived in your body.

but you get out anyway.

each step toward her feels like walking underwater. heavy and unreal. it’s not like the movies; there’s no music, no chatter, not even the buzz of the neon bar sign — just the sound of your boots crunching over ice and her small, wracked breaths in the distance.

she looks up; mascara smudged under both eyes, blinking like she’s not sure if you’re really here.

“you came,” she speaks, voice shaking. “you actually came.”

you crouch down beside her. “of course i did.”

it’s not even a sentence, really. her lips part like she wants to speak, but nothing comes out except a new wave of tears. she breaks immediately — no hesitation, no pride left to cling to. she just folds into you like muscle memory, like all those months apart didn’t stretch the distance between your bodies.

her arms lock around your neck, shoulders shaking violently, the kind of crying that comes from somewhere deeper than sadness.

grief, maybe. or realisation.

“you look so much happier now,” she mumbles into your sleeve, voice muffled in between breaths. “with sana. i see it in your face…you never looked at me like that.”

“that’s not true,” you reassure her. “

she puts a slight distance between you two, wiping her face with the sleeve of her coat instead. her eyes are swollen, cheeks red from the cold. “i ruined it. i ruined everything.

you look at her, really take a good look at her. the way her lips are chapped, she looks so tired. you wonder if she’s eaten today.

if she’s still trying to pretend she’s okay to everyone but you.

“maybe,” you say gently. “but that doesn’t mean i hate you.”

she laughs bitterly through her tears. “you should.”

“i don’t,” you say again. “you loved me in the way you could…it just wasn’t enough.”

the words feel cruel even as you say them, but they’re honest. and maybe she needs that more than kindness right now.

you guide her to the car with gentle hands, barely saying a word. she’s compliant but stumbling, half-apologising through her sobs. her coat slips off one shoulder, and you pull it up, fasten the belt for her. the seatbelt clicks into place and you pass her the water bottle from the centre console.

“drink some of this, you need it.”

she obeys. she always does with you, even now. she’s still crying — softly, into the crook of her elbow. you start the car and pull into the road without asking where to go.

you already know.

the han river’s quiet this time of night. empty car park, the kind of silence you used to share like a secret. back then, it felt like the only place in the city where you could breathe together.

no lights except the scattered halos of streetlamps catching on the water. you pull into the spot she used to love — far left corner, facing the ripples.neither of you speak right away.

the engine hums low on the background.

“i used to take you here every time i ran out of things to say,” she whispers. her voice is hoarse. “and somehow you always found more.”

you turn to her. she’s staring out at the river like it holds every answer she was too scared to look for back then. her hands tremble as she sets the water down to her lap.

“why did i do that?” she asks, voice small. “why did i lie to you every time i told you i was choosing you? why did i make you believe that?”

you don’t know how to answer. you’ve asked yourself the same thing, over and over. back then it felt like she was always reaching for you with one hand and holding something else in the other.

you wanted her to choose, you waited for it. but she never did.

“i was so scared,” she admits, eyes glistening again. “not of you. of what it meant to love you that much and the expectations already set out for me in stone.”

you remain quiet because your throat aches with too much of everything. she reaches for your hand, like she’s checking to see if it’s still real.

you watch the water shimmer through the windshield, her reflection blurring next to yours in the glass. “i tried so hard to let you go, but i think i just…folded you into every part of me instead.”

“i hated myself for how i treated you,” jimin continued, her voice cracking again. “i still do.”

“don’t,” you finally look at her. “you were scared. people make stupid choices when they’re scared.”

“you weren’t,” she lets out a pained sob. “you never were. you always chose me, even when it hurt. even when i couldn’t say your name out loud.”

“and you’re punishing yourself for not being ready, but that’s not love, jimin. it’s guilt. and it’s going to eat you alive if you let it.”

you both sit there for a long time, her head resting against the window and her hand still holding yours.

she folds over again, body racked with sobs, and you do what you’ve always done — you hold her. her head lands onto your shoulder this time and she grips your sleeve like it’s the only solid thing left in the world.

at some point, you find tears slipping out of your eyes too. not because you still want her, not in that way. but because once, you really did. and that kind of loss never leaves quietly.

you stroke her hair slowly, the silence stretching around you like a blanket pulled tight. it’s not cold anymore, but you’re both shivering from everything else.

then, your phone buzzes. sana. asking if you’re still there…but it feels like a different question, like it holds another meaning than just there.

“we should go,” you heave out a sigh. “sana’s waiting for me.”

“okay,” she nods quietly. “okay, we can do that.”

she’s quiet when you drive her home. her hand stays in yours the whole ride, resting on the centre console, thumb brushing over your knuckles.

nothing needs to be said now.

when you pull up outside her building, she doesn’t move at first. she just turns to you, eyes full and steady. she hesitates. and then, barely above a whisper: “will you stay with me tonight?”

you pause, heart twisting, then stills. “no,” you say, as gently as you can. “i can’t.”

she nods, like she expected that answer but it still wounds her. “this is goodbye, isn’t it?”

you look over at her. “i…yeah. i think so.”

she reaches out, touches your cheek gently, her fingers cold but still familiar. you shake your head, but she leans in, presses her forehead against yours and keeps going. “if i ever get another chance…i’ll do it right.”

your eyes sting and having her this close again makes your chest ache. “jimin —“

her voice is barely a whisper now, her tears falling on your lap. “if i have to wait a lifetime, i will. if not this one, then the next.”

you don’t promise anything, but you press your forehead to hers for a moment longer and then pull away.

“please go inside,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “goodnight, jimin.”

she nods and steps out of the car — doesn’t look back but you can see the way her shoulders shake. you watch her walk away until she disappears into the building, and only then do you let the tears fall freely.

it’s not love anymore, not quite. but it’s still something. maybe it always will be.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

you don’t mean to make a big deal of it. not really.

the sky’s that bright blue that means late spring is almost over and it’s warm enough that the breeze coming off the han river barely makes a difference.

sana’s leaning back on her elbows, the grass soft beneath the blanket she insisted on bringing. it’s the same one from the last time — the one you two fell asleep under after sneaking snacks into a campus lawn movie night months ago. you’re both stretched out at yeouido park, iced coffee mostly melted between you, the soft hum of people around blending with the low strum of an acoustic busker in the distance.

you should be focused on your book but you’re not. you’ve been reading the same paragraph three times; she keeps tapping your ankle with hers. she’s got sunglasses on, head tilted back like she’s soaking in the last of the coldness before summer pulls it away.

“you’re staring,” she says, not looking at you, her mouth tugged up into the smallest smirk. “i can feel it.”

“i’m not,” you lie, flipping the page like that’ll save you.

she doesn’t push, just keeps tapping your ankle lazily, her foot warm against yours. you want to tell her to stop because it’s driving you mad, the affection of it.

the way she still treats you like someone precious, even when you’ve made her wait all this time.

you glance sideways at her. her lips are soft and she’s wearing your hoodie. she smells like the inside of your pillow. and when she turns her head to face you — sunglasses sliding down a little — you feel it all at once.

every slow moment you’ve spent together since winter. the little things. the movie nights, the long drives, the way she remembers how you take your coffee. how she’s never made you feel like loving her is a countdown to goodbye.

and god, you love her.

you set your book down. “hey, sana.”

she hums.

“can we —” you falter. clear your throat. “can we make this official?”

that gets her. she pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, blinks at you like she didn’t hear you right. “what?”

you sit up straighter, stomach twisting. “i mean…i want to be with you. like, actually with you. if you still want that.”

she’s silent for a second too long, in the way you know she’s replaying your words, making sure they’re real. her smile starts in her eyes before it reaches her lips.

“you’re asking me to be your girlfriend,” she repeats slowly, softly, like she wants to savour it.

you nod, heart thudding. “yeah.”

“finally,” she lets out a breath, practically laughs, and then leans forward, pulling you in by the front of your hoodie and kissing you, full and slow and warm like sunlight. it’s like she’s known it would happen, eventually, and now it has. her hands cradle your face as she pulls away. “took you long enough.”

you smile against her lips, relief blooming in your chest. “sorry.”

“i forgive you,” she grins. “but only because you’re cute.”

you groan, bury your face in her shoulder. “i should’ve asked you when you brought me coffee every morning for a week. or when you stayed up all night helping me with my thesis draft.”

“or when my parents bought you that fancy watch for christmas.”

“okay, yes, that too.”

she plays with the hem of your sleeve. “i would’ve said yes every time.”

you look down at her fingers brushing yours. “i know.”

and you do. you really do…because that’s the difference with sana. with her, there’s no guessing. just quiet loyalty, kindness that doesn’t make you feel small.

you both lie back again, the moment settling into your bones. she squeezes your hand once and doesn’t let go and the grass rustles beside you.

you don’t say anything more. you don’t need to. she knows.

and somewhere, maybe not too far off, you think of jimin — how some things burn out before they ever have the chance to be steady. how sometimes, it’s not about who makes your heart race, but who makes it feel safe to stay.

today, you chose safety. and maybe that’s what love is now. not the ache of almost, but the warmth of finally.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

fuck, you didn’t plan on seeing her.

not today of all days — when you’re feeling light, even content, walking along the street with a brown paper bag in hand, the apricot pastry tucked neatly inside.

sana had texted you earlier, something about being stuck in a last-minute campaign, promising to make it up to you with takeout and terrible reality tv.

but campus is small, specially after graduation. the cafés are familiar and the corners shared.

jimin.

she’s sitting alone outside, cup of americano going cold in front of her, a book she isn’t reading open on her lap. her hair’s even shorter now, blunt around her jaw and she’s dressed in black again, like she’s always bracing for winter, even in the middle of summer.

you think of walking past or turning around, but your feet don’t move fast enough and she looks up like clockwork — and there it is. the recognition and the pause. her eyes soften the second they land on you and she lifts a hand in a small wave.

your feet begin walk over. there’s no ache in your chest now. it’s something softer; nostalgic.

“hey y/n,” she smiles, a bit brighter now.

“jimin!” you sit across from her, slipping the bag onto your lap. your heart isn’t racing like before, now it’s a steady thrum, a quiet reminder of everything you used to feel.

“hey,” she repeats, voice low.

still familiar. still jimin.

“hi, how are you doing?”

“i’m well,” her lips twitch into something like a smile. “you look good.”

you shrug. “so do you. different…i like the short hair, it’s good.”

it’s awkward in a way it always is with exes…or whatever you two were.

she nods slowly, as if she knows. “i feel different.”

you glance at the book on her table — something classic, spine cracked, pages annotated in the way she always used to do when she was trying to understand something deeply. you used to love watching her read like that, as if the words meant everything and they were a map.

“i heard about you and sana,” she adds after a beat. not bitter, just factual. “and graduating top of your class isn’t an easy feat; i’m so proud of you.”

you nod again, it means a lot coming from her. “we’re doing well.”

there’s a pause. then she says: “she’s good to you.”

“she always has been.”

and jimin looks down, eyes on her coffee. her voice is steady when she speaks; “i’ve been thinking a lot. about everything. about how i was with you. with jaewook, with…myself.”

you don’t say anything. just listen.

“after you,” she continues, “i tried to fill the space with noise. with him. with plans that didn’t belong to me. i thought maybe if i pretended hard enough, it’d go away. the guilt and the wanting.”

you watch her hands as she speaks. they’re calmer now. no shaking, no nervous twitching. just open palms, resting on her lap.

“i broke up with jaewook a few weeks after that night at the restaurant. i didn’t tell anyone. i think part of me was still waiting for you to come back.”

your chest tightens — not painfully, but enough to remind you that the past isn’t as far away as you sometimes pretend.

“but you didn’t,” she adds. “and i’m glad you didn’t because it forced me to stop waiting and start…choosing.”

you tilt your head slightly. “choosing?”

“myself. finally,” she lets out a breath. “i’m taking over the family business.”

that makes you blink. “really?”

she nods, chuckling. “yeah, i always thought it was a sentence. something i’d be trapped in. but now it’s…mine. i want to do it right. make something out of it that means something. not because they told me to — but because i want to.”

you can’t help it; you smile. for her; with her, because you can recognise how far she’s come.

“i’m proud of you for deciding on that; jimin, the ceo of yu group — can’t believe i get to say i knew her.”

jimin looks up then, really stares at you. and for a second, you see her as she was when you first fell in love — messy-haired, sharp-tongued, eyes always searching for something to hold onto.

“thank you for loving me the way you did. i was too young to understand it at the time, too scared and stupid.”

you nod slowly, the words settling somewhere deep inside. “i used to wish you’d been braver.”

“i know,” she smiles, a little sad. “i wish i had been too.”

you both sit there for a while, letting the silence do what words can’t. there’s nothing sharp in the air anymore. no what-ifs or if-onlys; just two people who survived each other.

“i miss you,” she admits, finally.

you meet her gaze. “i miss you too, but i don’t miss us.”

it’s gentle, the way you say it, but you can see it hit her — the truth of it. she doesn’t cry and doesn’t reach for you. instead, breathes in then out.

“and thank you for loving me when i didn’t know how to love you back properly.”

you smile, soft at the edges. “you taught me a lot. even in the mess of it.”

she laughs, a little broken, a little healed. “that’s the nicest way anyone’s ever told me i was a total disaster.”

you smile shyly too, brushing imaginary dust off your jeans. “take care of yourself, jimin.”

“you too,” she says. “and y/n?”

you pause.

“if you ever need someone to have your back — even if it’s from far away — it’ll always be me. what i said that night…i meant it. in every lifetime.”

your throat tightens, offering her a small smile. “i know.”

you walk away, heart strangely light. there’s no heaviness, but you carry the knowledge that some people are lessons. and some are homes.

sana’s probably waiting for you back at the apartment now, with her soft playlists and too-large jumpers and the smell of peppermint tea she always forgets to finish, wondering if you remembered the name of the pastry this time.

you did; and this time, you’re bringing it home.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

the end.

[tttwiceeluvrr]

[tttwiceeluvrr]

How do I stop existing without kms

[tttwiceeluvrr]

LOL

shoot me please

[tttwiceeluvrr]

I miss twice tumblr where did everyone go 😓😓

[tttwiceeluvrr]

I’m so peaceful

[tttwiceeluvrr]

i love you, i’m sorry — minatozaki sana.

now playing: i love you, i’m sorry - gracie abrams.

synopsis - after growing up side by side, you and sana blurred the line between friendship and something softer—until fame pulled her forward, and she left you behind in the quiet. months after the betrayal, she reappears—wrecked, wanting, and ridiculously still in love. part 2 of 'i know the end'.

pairing - minatozaki sana x fem reader.

it’s been forty-six days since you left.

sana doesn’t mark it on the calendar. she doesn’t have to. the number just lives in her body—etched into her ribcage, settled deep into her joints, like a quiet ache that never goes away.

the morning is grey. cold. one of those mornings where even the city feels slow to wake. the alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m., but sana’s already been lying there for hours, eyes open, muscles locked. she doesn’t remember falling asleep. she doesn’t remember waking up either.

the bed is too big now. too tidy.

you used to toss and turn in your sleep, always pulling the blankets toward yourself, leaving her to shiver on the edge. now the duvet stays tucked, untouched. she misses the chaos of your presence—the way you’d talk nonsense in your dreams, your foot constantly finding its way onto her calf, as if afraid she might disappear.

she turns her head. the pillow beside her is empty. still.

the mug you always used—the chipped white one with the tiny red heart painted on the handle—is gone. so is your toothbrush. your scarf. the half-used perfume bottle you left on the dresser.

but the letter remains.

it lives in the drawer of the bedside table. always half-open. she keeps telling herself to put it away properly, but she doesn’t. she can’t.

some mornings, like this one, she reads it again. not all the way through—just fragments.

“you are the deepest claw mark on my heart.”

her breath catches. even now, the words dig in like teeth. she folds the paper back carefully, like it’s something sacred, and places it where it’s lived for weeks.

she gets up slowly, limbs stiff. her body aches more these days. not from rehearsals or lack of sleep, but from the weight she’s been carrying.

she makes tea but doesn’t drink it. just watches the steam curl into the air, disappearing the way you did.

she sits on the floor. the spot near the window where you used to read. she doesn’t open a book. she just stares out at the street below, eyes vacant. people pass, umbrellas bobbing against the sky, lives moving forward.

it makes her feel like she’s underwater. like she’s been left behind in a version of life where everything has slowed down except her heartbeat, which won’t stop racing.

her phone buzzes.

a group chat.

a schedule reminder.

a message from nayeon: you still coming? car’s downstairs in ten.

she stares at the screen. she almost replies i’m sick. almost replies i can’t do this today.

but she doesn’t.

she stands up. brushes the dust off her sweatpants. ties her hair into a loose bun. pulls on the coat you once stole and never gave back until she begged.

she makes it to the car with two minutes to spare.

jihyo greets her softly. momo hands her a drink. nayeon doesn’t say anything, just squeezes her wrist, brief and wordless. they know. they all do.

but no one talks about you.

not directly.

but sometimes, in between soundchecks or on the edge of a long silence, someone will glance at her like they want to ask have you heard from her? or do you think she’ll come back?

they never say it aloud. and she never asks. because the truth is you won’t. and she knows that.

she knows it every time she gets home and opens the door to nothing. no music playing from your phone. no smell of burnt toast. no muffled humming from the shower.

just quiet.

just the echo of the life she ruined.

she lies awake most nights replaying every version of the fight you never had. the apologies she never gave. the ways she took your kindness and stretched it too thin until it snapped.

some nights she almost whispers your name into the pillow, just to hear it again. just to see if it still holds weight in her mouth.

but she know it does. 

it always will. 

so she doesn’t try. 

and some mornings, like this one, she wonders how long she can keep moving through a world that doesn’t have you in it.

not with her.

not anymore.

⸻

it starts quietly.

missed steps in choreography she’s done a hundred times. forgotten lyrics in rehearsals. a look in her eyes during shoots that editors later try to crop out, calling it “detached.”

and maybe that’s the word—detached.

sana smiles when she’s told to. laughs when it’s expected. bows, greets, sings, dances. she does everything the same way she always has. but something is missing.

and the people around her feel it.

it’s in the way nayeon watches her during breaks, brows pinched, like she’s waiting for something to snap. in the way jihyo squeezes her shoulder just a second too long after every performance.

it’s in how the staff stop teasing her. how they speak a little softer when they pass her her schedule.

momo says it plainly one night, backstage, just the two of them sitting in silence.

“you’re not really here, are you?”

sana doesn’t answer.

she’s not sure she knows how to be.

everything reminds her of you.

the song playing on the radio—the one you used to sing under your breath while washing up. the empty seat beside her in the van where you once sat on the way to a late-night performance, your hand on her knee.

the stupid peach flavoured juice from in the vending machine. she used to buy it without thinking. now, she walks past it like it’s haunted.

she avoids your part of town. she doesn’t go near the station where you’d meet her after practice, scarf looped carelessly around your neck, cheeks pink from the wind.

but still, you’re everywhere.

one morning she wakes up from a dream she can’t remember, face wet with tears. her throat is sore from holding back from whispering your name.

somewhere between the schedules and the silences, she starts forgetting who she is.

she misses a radio interview. shows up late to a dance shoot. her manager takes her aside, voice quiet but stern.

“you need to get it together.”

she nods. apologises. smiles.

and then goes home and cries so hard she throws up.

the group notices. they all do.

but they don’t ask about you. they don’t say your name.

not because they don’t remember—because they do. they remember the way you lit up around her. the way she softened around you. the way her laugh used to sound when you were in the room.

but they know better than to press a bruise.

so they let her unravel. quietly.

the fans notice too. comments start piling up.

“sana looks tired.”

“is sana okay?”

“sana seems… different.”

she reads them all.

scrolls until her eyes blur.

keeps reading anyway.

it’s not your absence that’s destroying her—it’s the way you left behind nothing but the truth.

you didn’t yell.

you didn’t break things.

you didn’t scream.

you just left.

and that’s what haunts her.

you loved her until it hollowed you out. and when you had nothing left, you walked away.

and she let you.

she didn’t run after you.

she thought you’d come back.

she thought you always would.

but you didn’t.

because she drove you out herself. 

and now she doesn’t know how to forgive herself for that.

⸻

the door clicks shut.

it’s the two of them now—just sana and nayeon, dressing room lit too bright, silence stretched too tight. the show is over, but nothing feels finished.

sana sits in front of the mirror, not bothering to peel off her mic or unclip her earrings. sweat drying on her neck. eyeliner smudged.

nayeon doesn’t sit.

“you need to pull yourself together.”

sana blinks. slow. unreadable.

“you can’t keep doing this,” nayeon says. “you were seconds late to your mark. jihyo nearly had to cover for you.”

“it was fine.”

“no, it wasn’t. we all felt it.” nayeon crosses her arms. “you’re not here, sana. not really. and we’re getting tired of pretending like we don’t notice.”

sana exhales through her nose. “i said i’ll do better.”

“that’s not what this is about,” nayeon snaps. “this isn’t about your timing or your spacing. this is about the fact that you’ve been walking around like a ghost for months and none of us know how to bring you back.”

the words land sharp. harder than she meant. but she doesn’t take them back.

sana doesn’t flinch. she just stares at herself in the mirror.

“you’re grieving someone,” nayeon says, quieter now. “we all know that. but you won’t say it. you won’t talk about her. you can’t even say her name.”

sana’s jaw tightens.

“it’s not about a name,” she says, hollow. “saying it won’t change anything.”

“then what will?” nayeon asks. “you think keeping it inside is helping?”

“you don’t understand.”

“then explain it to me.”

sana stands, too fast, chair scraping against the floor. she paces a step, two, like the room is suddenly too small.

“she was—” her voice catches. “she was always there. even when i forgot to be. and then when she stopped waiting, i hated her for it.”

nayeon watches her carefully. “but you don’t hate her.”

“no,” sana breathes. “i don’t, i could never. i hate me.”

nayeon’s throat tightens. she steps closer. “then say it.”

sana shakes her head.

“say her name.”

“don’t do that.”

“why not?”

“because if i say it,” sana whispers, voice crumbling, “then she’s real. and if she’s real, then losing her is real, and i can’t—”

“you already lost her.”

sana’s whole body curls inward.

“she loved me when i didn’t deserve it. she waited. and i made her wait until there was nothing left of her.”

nayeon steps forward, voice gentler now, tears forming in her own eyes. 

“sana, say it.”

sana breathes in. shaky.

“i miss her,” she says, fragile. “i miss the way she made space for me when i didn’t ask. i miss the way she smelled like jasmine and ink. i miss the sound of her laugh at three in the morning when everything else was quiet.”

nayeon’s eyes begin to sting.

“i miss her,” sana repeats, and her voice cracks open. “i miss y/n.”

and there it is.

the name falls out like a wound. like a confession. like a prayer.

and as soon as she says it—her knees buckle. she drops to the floor, shoulders trembling, mouth pressed against her hands to muffle the sobs.

nayeon drops with her, arms around her in an instant. holding her through it. cradling her like something broken and precious.

“it’s okay,” she murmurs. “it’s alright. i’ve got you.”

what neither of them sees is the door left slightly ajar.

and jihyo standing just behind it.

still. 

watching.

she hadn’t meant to eavesdrop—she’d only come to say she’s leaving, to say goodnight.

but then she heard your name fall from sana’s lips, wrapped in nothing but pure agony.

and jihyo—who’s never said it aloud, never spoken the softness she feels when sana laughs at something only she hears—feels something fracture in her chest.

she bites her lip. her breath shallow.

she doesn’t step in. doesn’t interrupt.

instead, she tilts her head up slightly and a tear falls as she closes her eyes. 

and she prays.

not for herself. not tonight.

if i can’t have sana, she pleads, please, just let her have y/n.

⸻

the sky is beginning to bruise when you step into the convenience store.

the sun’s slipping behind the rooftops, casting everything in a low, golden haze. your shoes are scuffed with the day, your jacket slipping off one shoulder. your friend’s waiting in the car down the road, but you’d asked for a few minutes—to grab something for the drive, and maybe to breathe, alone.

you wander slowly, aimless. a few bags of different crisps, water, a half-hearted protein bar. 

everything tastes like nothing lately. 

but you just want to be full.

you’re reaching for the shelf with the bottled teas when you hear it.

“…y/n?”

you turn.

jihyo.

simple hoodie, no makeup, oat milk and frozen dumplings in her basket. she looks as surprised as you feel.

you straighten up. blink once. “oh. hey.”

her expression flickers somewhere between polite and startled. “hi. i didn’t think i’d see you around here.”

you nod at the basket in her arms. “you live nearby?”

she hesitates. then smiles, easy. “my sister does. i’m just staying over tonight. you?”

you return the smile. not forced. just quiet. “i’m just grabbing something for the drive back. was looking at an apartment nearby earlier.”

“moving out here?”

you shrug. “maybe. it’s quieter.”

a small silence slips between you. not sharp, but present.

jihyo shifts the weight of her basket in her arms.

“you look well.”

“i’m trying,” you say simply. and then, before you can stop yourself—“how’s sana?”

you don’t say her name like it stings. you say it like it’s still part of your breath.

jihyo’s mouth parts. just slightly. she wasn’t expecting that.

“she’s… not great,” she admits. “but better than she was. she’s trying.”

you nod. a little too quickly. “good.”

you glance down at your basket. then at the door. you shift slightly on your feet. 

“i’m glad you were here,” you say, honestly. “it’s nice to see a familiar face.”

and you mean it. you mean all of it.

jihyo smiles again. something flickers in her eyes—warm, but tight. “you too,” she says.

you give a soft smile as you turn, basket tucked into your arm. and you’re gone.

the bell above the door jingles as it closes behind you.

and jihyo just stands there. still.

it takes her a moment to realise why her throat aches.

you’d asked about sana first.

not a how are you?

not a  how have things been?

not a what have you been up to?

but a how’s sana?

like nothing else had been sitting heavier in your chest.

and suddenly it’s so clear—too clear—why sana still falls apart when she hears your name.

because you still love her.

and jihyo feels it like a bruise under her ribs. not anger. not jealousy. just a low, dull ache.

she exhales. closes her eyes for a second.

if i can’t be the one she needs, she thinks, please, let it be someone who still loves her like that.

⸻

the flat is dark by the time jihyo gets home.

not quiet—hollow. the kind of stillness that feels like something’s missing. not gone. just misplaced, like a coat someone meant to come back for.

she toes off her shoes without turning on the light. the hallway is faintly lit by the spill of a streetlamp outside.

she hears it before she sees it—sana’s breathing, uneven.

she’s on the sofa, curled into herself, wrapped in nothing but the baggy jumper she’s been wearing for three days straight. her phone is facedown on the coffee table. the candle next to it has burned out completely, wax hardened in a small, forgotten pool.

she’s not crying. not this time.

just still. folded inwards. like something pressed pause on her.

jihyo stands there a second longer than she needs to.

then crosses the room.

she picks up the blanket that’s half-hanging off the back of the sofa. it smells faintly like lavender and old longing. and she unfolds it, gentle before she lays it over sana with care.

sana doesn’t flinch.

jihyo’s hand hovers. hesitates. then lands—soft, slow—on her shoulder.

she should pull back. she means to.

but she doesn’t.

her fingers curl ever so slightly into the fabric. into warm skin.

and for a moment—just one unbearable moment—sana leans into it.

like it’s familiar. like it’s safe.

and then—quiet. so quiet it might’ve been imagined if it didn’t cleave straight through her—

“…y/n?”

jihyo freezes.

sana shifts, just a little. nuzzles into the hand still resting there.

like she’s found you.

like you are home.

jihyo pulls her hand back slowly.

not sharply.

not violently.

like she’s unthreading herself from something sacred before she gets too deep. 

sana doesn’t notice.

she whispers your name again. softer. with the reverence of someone dreaming of a god they once touched.

jihyo steps back. once. twice.

and the thing that kills her isn’t the name.

it’s the way she says it.

like a lullaby. like a memory. like a promise.

jihyo stands there a moment longer, alone in the dark with the soft sound of someone else being wanted.

and she steps back again until she’s out of the reach of that voice. that name. that grief that isn’t hers to claim.

she stands at the edge of the room for a long moment, her hand burning with the ghost of a touch she should never have tried to keep.

and then she turns. and walks quietly down the hall. opens the door to her room like it might wake someone. like it might wake sana.

and she closes the door like she’s shutting herself inside her own silence.

her back hits the door.

her head resting against the oak.

but she does not cry.

not because it doesn’t hurt.

but because it always hurts.

because she wanted it to be her. just once. just for a second. she just wanted to hold sana’s name like a vow. and it almost was. until it wasn’t.

and because pain, when repeated often enough, becomes a kind of devotion.

and jihyo slides down the door, knees to her chest, eyes burning.

sana sleeps peacefully for the first time in weeks, dreaming of the only voice that can touch her soul.

wrapped in a blanket of someone else’s kindness.

wrapped in a blanket jihyo would’ve given anything to be.

⸻

sana doesn’t hear momo’s joke, or nayeon’s laughing across the table.

sana doesn’t notice jihyo’s half-scrolling, half-watching her, or that her drink’s gone warm and untouched.

sana does notice the bartender calling your name and teasing you for being at the bar again as her gaze moves across the stools before seeing you.

sana does notice the way you laugh a laugh too familiar to her. the shape of it lodged in some old part of her.

you’re at the bar, coat still on, scrolling absently through your phone as you wait to order.

you don’t see her.

but she sees you.

something rises in her chest too quickly. her drink forgotten. her hands already moving before she thinks.

jihyo says her name under her breath—“sana, don’t”—but it’s like speaking into wind.

she’s already standing. already walking.

when you look up, she’s two steps away. “y/n.”

you freeze. your eyes widen a fraction. “…sana,” and it lands like a stone between you.

you’re still. guarded. your voice is calm, but your arms fold across your chest. “what do you want?”

sana’s already breathless. “just to talk. please. i’m not trying to make a scene.”

you glance around the bar. someone moves past you, laughing. music hums just beneath it all. “not here,” you say flatly. “this isn’t the place.”

“i know. i know that.” sana’s voice drops lower. “just… please. ten minutes. somewhere else. whenever you want. i just—i need to say some things. things i should’ve said a long time ago.”

you don’t reply.

your silence feels final.

but she steps forward, slower now, voice steadier:

“you don’t have to say anything back. you don’t have to forgive me. i’m not asking for a second chance. i’m just… i need you to hear me.”

your eyes flicker. something shifts. sana knows.

you take in her appearance—skinnier, concealer barely covering the bags under her eyes, the eyes that are nowhere near as bright as they used to be when they would wake up to the sight of you next to her, instead, the eyes that display panic, fear, hopelessness.

and it has you sighing and nodding once. “i’ll text you,” you say. “don’t be late.”

you don’t wait for her to respond.

you pick up your bag.

you leave.

sana stands there for a second too long, breathing like she’s just surfaced from underwater.

then—slowly, carefully—she turns back towards the table.

and when she sits down, everything is still the same around her—drinks half-finished, momo scrolling, nayeon deep in conversation.

but something in her is different.

she’s still. calmer. lighter. her face soft in a way it hasn’t been in weeks.

jihyo sees it.

sees the shift in her posture, the almost-smile tugging at her mouth, the way her fingers stop fidgeting for once.

“you saw her,” jihyo says.

sana nods.

she doesn’t say anything else.

she doesn’t need to.

the hope in her eyes is louder than words.

and jihyo—

jihyo turns away. 

presses her lips together. 

breathes through her nose.

because it’s not fair.

because it’s always you.

because she’s been holding sana together with bare hands for months, and the second you look at her—just look—she starts glowing again.

and jihyo hates that she understands.

and she hates that she still loves sana anyway.

⸻

you don’t wait by the door.

you just sit. still and quiet with hands folded like you’re holding a decision between your palms.

when she knocks, it’s barely a sound.

you already knew she’d come right on time. 

you saw her sitting in her car outside earlier when you were pacing back and forth.

you open the door.

and there she is—smaller. softer. still her. not completely. hoodie pulled tight around her face, eyes wide in a way that has nothing to do with surprise. like the world’s been too much for a long time and she’s forgotten how to take anything in.

you say nothing, just step aside.

she walks in like she’s afraid her feet will be too loud for your floor. like she’s stepping into a house of cards.

you both sit.

the sofa dips beneath her, like it remembers a weight that used to belong there.

you watch the candle on the table. it wavers once. then steadies.

you don’t ask how she is.

you can see it.

she doesn’t ask how you are.

you’ve always hidden well.

“thank you for…” she starts, but her voice trails off.

you nod and she doesn’t finish the sentence.

minutes pass like slow wind.

then—“you look well,” she says, eyes flicking over your jumper, your face, the mug on the table you never drank from.

you don’t say thank you. just—“you look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

“i haven’t.” you believe her. the proof is right infant of you in flesh and blood.

you shift slightly. arms crossed. heart closed. not locked. just… protected.

“why are you here, sana?”

she swallows. “because not saying anything was worse than the chance of saying it wrong,” you look at her. properly. her eyes are glass and her hands are fists in her sleeves. “i ruined it,” she says.

you nod. “you did.”

“i tried to pretend i hadn’t. i thought… if i didn’t say it out loud, maybe it wouldn’t be true.”

“it was true anyway.”

she doesn’t cry yet. but she’s close. and you know it.

“i thought about texting you,” she whispers. “every day. every night. i didn’t know if it would be selfish. or worse—useless.”

you breathe. slow. even.

not steady. just practiced.

“i waited for you,” you say. “longer than i should’ve.”

“i know,” she blinks. “i’m sorry. ”

“and i think that’s what hurts the most. you knew. and you didn’t stop me from giving up.”

she’s crying now. quiet, small tears. not dramatic. just tired.

“i was scared,” she says. “not of you. of me. of what i was becoming. of how much of you i was asking to hold when i wasn’t giving anything back.”

your voice is low. “you gave me scraps, sana. and i told myself they were enough because they were yours.”

sana leans forward, elbows on knees, like her body can’t hold the weight of what she’s saying.

“i still love you.”

your hands tighten around your own wrist. but your voice doesn’t waver. “that’s not the same as loving me well, sana.”

silence settles between you. deep.

full of everything that wasn’t said when it mattered.

but you can both hear the sound of her heart breaking at the tone you used when you said her name.

the candle burns low.

“i don’t know what to do with this,” you say.

sana lifts her head. her face blotchy, red. she looks so raw. “i don’t expect anything.”

“don’t lie.”

she exhales. “okay. i… i hoped maybe you’d say you missed me.”

you do. 

you miss her in the quiet moments, in the gaps between songs, in the way your toothbrush still leans to one side like it’s waiting for hers.

but you don’t say it.

“i’m not ready,” you say.

she nods—rapidly, understandingly.

“i’d still rather have you as a friend than not at all,” she whispers. “even if i’m still in love with you. even if it hurts.”

her voice shakes as she adds. “i’d take any version of you you’re willing to give.”

and that’s the part that guts you.

because it’s not a performance.

it’s not a line.

it’s her heart, open and trembling, held out like an apology.

you breathe in.

and for a long, aching pause—you don’t answer.

“i need time.”

she nods again. fast. eyes wide and full. “of course. whatever you need, y/n.”

“i don’t know if i can be your friend,” you say. “not yet. maybe not ever.”

“i know.” she swallows.

“but i don’t want to hate you either.”

sana presses her lips together. “then maybe,” she whispers, “we can start with not hating each other.”

the clock ticks once.

you nod.

it’s not a promise.

but it’s something.

and she smiles.

not with joy.

with relief.

with pain.

because she’d rather have the broken edges of you than none of you at all.

and you let her sit there, beside the quiet flame.

not forgiven.

not gone.

just here.

and for now—

that’s enough.

⸻

you text her first.

it’s not long. just a message about a café opening near the station.

remember that one place you used to drag me to with the chalkboard menus? this new one has the same smell.

she replies five minutes later.

sweet potato scones and overpriced tea. god, i miss those.

you don’t answer.

not straight away.

but a week later, you pass the café and think of her again.

you send a photo.

no caption.

she doesn’t say anything either.

but you see her heart the post two hours later.

⸻

you bump into her again.

this time, on purpose.

she’s sitting outside a bookstore. hoodie up. tea in hand.

you don’t say her name.

you just sit beside her. “you look less like death,” you say.

“i’ve been trying.” she smiles softly. “therapy. walking. not being a terrible person.”

you nod. sip your coffee.

it’s still strange—still stiff—but it doesn’t sting.

“you’re still you,” she says.

“i think i’m someone new,” you reply. “but she’s got the same bones.”

she doesn’t reach for your hand and you don’t reach for hers—you’re both learning not to.

⸻

you help her carry a box.

not on purpose.

she’s moved out the dorm into a new apartment. you’re walking home from work.

you see her outside the building. struggling.

“do you want help?” you ask.

she blinks. then laughs, sheepish. “only if you promise not to throw it off the balcony.”

you do not laugh. but you lift the box.

in her new flat, she offers you tea.

you say yes.

it feels like something.

you sit on the floor.

mugs between you.

knees not quite touching.

“do you ever think,” she says, “that if we met later… we might’ve stood a chance?”

you look down. “i think we met exactly when we were supposed to,” you take a sip. “and broke exactly when we had to.”

she nods. and you can tell it’s forced. 

you stay until the candle on her coffee table burns too low to keep pretending.

when you leave, she doesn’t hug you—but she walks you to the door.

and for the first time in months, it doesn’t feel like goodbye.

⸻

you see her again on a wednesday. not planned.

she’s walking out of a florist’s, a small white paper bag in one hand. you’re walking past on your lunch break, airpods in, already halfway through a voice note from your friend.

you both stop.

she smiles first. awkward.

the kind of smile people give to someone they’ve dreamt about for years.

you pause your voice note, tilt your head at her whilst raising a brow—but sana focuses on the small teasing smile that plays on your lips. “buying flowers?”

she nods. “for jihyo,” then, softer. “she’s been a good friend.”

you don’t say she always was. you don’t say anything.

“you’ve got glitter on your cheek,” she says, gently.

you blink and begin to reach up.

but you’re too late. 

she steps forward and brushes it away with the softest touch of her thumb.

then she pulls back—eyes wide, as if she didn’t mean to.

neither of you says sorry.

“you’re free tonight?” you ask, quietly.

not like an invitation. like a wondering.

she nods. like a yes that’s been waiting.

you walk away. but slower this time.

that evening, she comes over and she helps you cook before you eat on the floor, knees bent, sharing one bowl between you like you used to.

a film plays in the background with low volume. 

neither of you pays it much attention.

“i missed this,” she says.

you don’t look at her. “what is this?”

she doesn’t answer.

because neither of you knows yet.

but she stays until midnight.

and when you shut the door, it no longer feels like a line you’ve crossed.

just something you’re slowly building again.

and when she leaves, her jumper smells like your laundry detergent.

and jihyo hates how it’s all she can focus on when sana gives her the flowers. 

⸻

the rain outside does not fall.

it presses.

slow, heavy, like the sky is laying its whole body across your windows

asking, can i come in?

you do not answer.

sana is in your kitchen, barefoot, like the version of her you buried.

the light is low. the candle burns steady. your chest does not.

you stand beside the counter where she used to kiss you without asking.

where she once whispered your name like it meant hunger.

now there is silence between you, silence wide enough to lose a person—sana, you— in.

then—“i thought i could do it,” she says, her voice splintering before it even reaches you. “i thought being your friend would be enough.” you do not turn.

“because having a version of you—any version—felt better than not having you at all,”

her voice shakes, but it does not stop. “i told myself it was brave. to hold you at arm’s length. to smile across rooms when all i wanted was your hand. to call it healing. to call it grace.”

a pause—so long you could fold your life into it.

“but it wasn’t brave,” she breathes. “it was cowardice dressed in quiet.”

you close your eyes. tight. hard.

your breath is a wound.

“i’m still in love with you,” she says, and the words fall between you like broken china.

“not kindly. not sweetly. but completely. hopelessly. in a way that undoes me. in a way i no longer know how to survive.”

you turn then. slow. 

your eyes meet hers

and she looks like a temple on fire—something built to hold worship, now consumed by its own light.

“i’m sorry,” she says again. “i’m sorry for making you think you weren’t enough for me but cheating on you, i’m sorry for all the ways i loved you like silence, for all the versions of you i asked to wait for me at the door, for every time you gave and i looked away.”

you step closer. not to touch. just to feel the ache better.

“do you think i wanted to leave?” your voice is smoke. “i had to choose between drowning with youor saving the part of me you kept forgetting to hold.”

she bites her lip. “i know.”

“and i did. i saved her,” you swallow. “but i still see you in everything she touches.”

there’s a sound in her throat. you think it might be your name.

“i came here thinking i could pretend,” she whispers. “that i could make you tea and call it enough. but i’m not built for pretending when it comes to you.”

your hands shake at your sides. “then don’t pretend.”

you both breathe.

or try to.

you fail at it in the same rhythm.

“i love you,” she says again.  “and it hurts. but pretending not to love you hurts worse.”

and then—the softest sentence. one made of bruises. one made of hope. “but if friendship is all you’ll give me, i will take it, and carry it like some sort of holy scripture.”

your heart breaks—not like glass. 

but like bread—like something meant to be shared.

you step back. just enough. because closeness is dangerous when you’re trying to feel clearly, when you’re trying to feel clarity.

“i need time,” you say. and your voice is not cruel. it’s sacred.

she nods. not like agreement. like faith. “i’ll wait.” she says like devotion.

you believe her.

not because she says it well.

but because she says it like a prayer

and stays very still

like she’s afraid it might break the moment open.

the rain presses harder.

and something in your chest

begins

to let go.

⸻

it rains the way it always does when something is trying to come back to life—soft. steady—like the sky’s been holding something in for days and finally lets itself weep.

the windows are fogged. the room is dim. the sheets smell like her again. not perfume. just her. that subtle trace of skin and sleep and the shampoo she’s always used.

she’s beside you—her breath is warm on your neck, slow and steady, like the rhythm of someone who finally let herself rest.

you stare at the ceiling, unmoving. not because you’re afraid she’ll disappear, but because she won’t. not this time.

her hand is draped over your waist, fingers curled in, not gripping—just there. a quiet presence. the ghost of every time she reached for you too late.

sana stirs. not all at once. just her eyelashes brushing your skin, her hand twitching gently, the small exhale that gives her away.

you don’t move. 

but your heart does. 

just a little.

ot quite touching. her breath is warm on your neck, slow and steady, like the rhythm of someone who finally let herself rest.

you stare at the ceiling, unmoving. not because you’re afraid she’ll disappear, but because she won’t. not this time.

her hand is draped over your waist, fingers curled in, not gripping—just there. a quiet presence. the ghost of every time she reached for you too late.

she stirs. not all at once. just her eyelashes brushing your skin, her hand twitching gently, the small exhale that gives her away.

you don’t move. but your heart does. just a little.

“y/n,” she mumbles like a habit, like a prayer, like she’s not sure if she’s still allowed to say it, but says it anyway.

you whisper, “hi,” and it’s the softest thing either of you have said in weeks. 

she doesn’t speak for a while. just shifts closer, her forehead brushing your jaw, like she’s anchoring herself to something real. something true. you.

“you stayed,” you murmur, not to her exactly, but to the room, to the night, to some part of you that didn’t believe she would.

her fingers curl tighter into the fabric of your shirt, not enough to hurt, but enough to say i’m here, i heard you, i’m not letting go this time.

her voice, when it comes, is barely sound. “i didn’t know how to stop wanting you.”

you inhale. not like a gasp. not like something sudden. it’s slow. reverent. like your lungs are remembering what it means to breathe in the presence of something holy.

“i still don’t know how,” she says, barely above a whisper. “i thought i could live with less. i thought if i smiled at the right moments, if i kept a respectful distance, if i played the part of friend well enough… it would make the wanting go quiet.”

she pauses. the space trembles.

“but i lied,” she chokes. “it didn’t quiet. it got louder. it broke me.”

you say nothing. not because there’s nothing to say, but because some things deserve to finish breaking the air before being held.

“i love you,” she breathes, and it’s not a declaration. it’s not a performance. it’s surrender. “i love you more now than i did when you were mine, because now i know the shape of your absence. now i know what it costs to sit beside you and not reach.”

you close your eyes. it doesn’t feel like falling. it feels like gravity. like truth pulling everything back into place.

and then you feel it—something warm. not her hands. not her breath.

her tears.

falling quietly onto your collarbone, sliding down your bare breasts.

you feel the tremble in her shoulders.

you hear her try to swallow it down.

you don’t stop her.

“i’m sorry,” she sobs. “god, y/n, i’m so, so sorry.”

your throat tightens. not with anger. not even sadness. just the weight of hearing what you’ve waited months to hear, and still not knowing what to do with it.

her grip on you tightens. her voice frays at the edges.

“i didn’t know how to handle it. everything was changing. the schedules, the pressure, the noise—i couldn’t hear myself think, i couldn’t feel my own skin. i was losing control and i—” she breathes out sharply—“so i let go of the only constant i had. the only thing i ever needed.”

her next words fall apart as they arrive.

“i love you. i love you. so much. i’m still in love with you. i think i always have been. i think i always will be.”

her lips press against your skin—your shoulder, your chest, somewhere near your heart—and when she says it again, it breaks.

“i love you, i’m sorry.”

you exhale. slow. deep. whole.

because now, when she says it, it isn’t a plea.

it isn’t a rehearsal.

it’s a truth that’s fought its way through silence, shame, fear.

and still chose to live.

you don’t say it back right away.

you let it sit between you. you let it settle into the sheets like her tears. you let the ache breathe.

then, softly, so softly— “i know,” and you feel her smile against your skin. small. wet. real.“i love you too.”

and that’s it—no grand gesture, no strings, no swelling soundtrack.

just two people who burned down a good thing. and sat in the ash long enough to build something gentler.

this is not perfect.

it never will be.

but it’s here.

and it’s real.

and this time,

it’s enough.

⸻

the dorm is warm with late evening. someone’s lit a candle that smells like citrus. there’s a film playing low on the television, but no one’s really watching. nayeon’s draped across the floor, feet in chaeyoung’s lap. momo’s in the kitchen grabbing snacks she forgot she already brought. jihyo’s in the corner of the couch, legs tucked beneath her, a blanket pulled half across her lap.

sana’s sitting on the rug, cross-legged, thumb tracing slow circles on the rim of her cup.

then she says it.

not loud. not shy.

just soft. like it’s a truth that finally found air.

“y/n and i are together again.”

a beat.

and then—noise.

“wait, what?” nayeon twists around, grinning like she already knows but wants to hear it anyway.

“since when?” chaeyoung asks, already reaching for her phone. “do i need to update the group chat? should i make a playlist?”

“oh my god,” momo yells from the kitchen, “i knew it. i knew you were being weird last week—i told mina!”

sana smiles, eyes dipping, face flushed.

jihyo doesn’t say anything.

she watches as nayeon leans forward, eyes bright.

“okay, i need to know everything. everything. who said it first? did she kiss you? did you kiss her?” she wiggles her eyebrows. “was there, like, a moment?”

sana laughs, soft and nervous.

“we were… in bed. not like that,” she adds quickly, cheeks darkening. “we were just lying there. she said something about how quiet the rain was. and i—i just told her everything. everything i didn’t say the first time.”

nayeon sighs dramatically. “that’s so cinematic. i’m going to cry.”

jihyo looks at the half-empty glass in her hand. watches the way the ice clings to the rim. 

and she swallows. slowly. gently. as if her body knows something she doesn’t want to.

“was she surprised?” jeongyeon asks.

sana shakes her head, her voice softer now. “no. she said she knew. but she needed to hear it. properly. not like a promise. just like a choice.”

jihyo feels her heart pull. not sharply. not in a way anyone could see. it’s just a little shift in her ribs. a little pressure in her throat.

because she knows what it’s like to wait for someone’s love to sound like a choice. and never hear it.

“i’m happy for you,” nayeon says, reaching to squeeze sana’s shoulder.

jihyo forces a smile. the kind that’s too well-practised. the kind that doesn’t reach.

“me too,” she murmurs, almost to herself.

but sana hears.

she turns—just slightly—towards jihyo. eyes soft. knowing.

and jihyo hates it.

hates that she noticed.

hates that she always notices.

hates how much she wants to be the person sana looks at like that.

and still, she smiles again.

because what else is there to do?

later, when the movie’s finally been forgotten and the snacks are long gone and the group begins to scatter into bedrooms, jihyo stays behind to rinse her glass.

she doesn’t cry.

doesn’t crumble.

she just stands at the sink, the tap running too long, the silence humming.

and as the lights dim behind her, she presses a hand to her chest.

not to hold anything in—

just to feel what’s still left.

“it should’ve been me,” she whispers, barely a sound.

then turns off the tap, and walks away from the kitchen like she hadn’t said anything at all.

⸻

the light comes in slow, like it’s careful not to wake you. it stretches across the wooden floor in long gold ribbons, soft and dust-heavy, the kind of light that makes you feel like you’ve survived something.

you sit on the floor by the window, knees drawn up, mug cooling between your palms. everything is still. the air, the morning, your heart.

she finds you like she always does now—without footsteps, without needing to ask. barefoot, sleep-tousled, wrapped in the jumper she never gave back. her eyes are quiet. not tired. just full.

she lowers herself beside you. doesn’t speak. doesn’t need to. her head comes to rest against your shoulder like it was made for that place, and maybe it always was.

you don’t say i love you.

you don’t need to.

the moment says it for you.

the silence sings it.

outside, the world keeps moving.

but you don’t.

you stay.

and so does she.

not because it’s perfect.

not because it’s painless.

but because it’s real.

and this time, real is enough.

[tttwiceeluvrr]

[tttwiceeluvrr]

wishing on you

park jihyo & fem!reader // yearning

THIS ONE TOOK SO LOONGGG?? like wow this was since jihyo had her solo so this sat in my drafts for a while oopz whatever anyway enjoy!

“you love me right?”

the royal mage says it’s inevitable

“i think i’ll love you until the ashes of our bones become one with the ground”

that fate, especially of yours, will always be inevitable

“do you still want to be with me?”

so you ask. you asked the universe to give into your pleas and let her be yours

“i would consider it as a gift from the high heavens if you let me be with you for as long as our souls meet”

she’s who fate chooses for you

“but i want to be with you this lifetime”

she’s your destiny

“then run away with me”

sometimes some lives won't play by fate's rules

“WHERE IS SHE?” a booming voice is what sends you waking up in cold sweat, gasping for air and any sense of grounding

see here’s the thing, you are a princess. the youngest princess of a rising kingdom and the only one left in the castle after your older sisters escaped. it’s unfortunate that while you are next in line for the thrown, that's not a plan that you wanted to follow. not with your father royally fucking up your love life right now by being a dumbass tyrant

you wish to hate your sisters for escaping, but you know you would have done the same. the only thing linking the three of you siblings together is a string of letters, letters that you hide with your trusted knight, who has also now ran away for both of your safety once the higher ups started getting suspicious

the same knight you have fallen in love with, despite the amount of tears every night you shed into your pillow thinking of the future

tonight the tireless king is what startles you awake instead of a nightmare. his obsession to control the kingdom even if it's in a brink of a revolution grips him tight. you are sure that your days are already counted by being associated to him by blood, the same blood that decides to merciless kill thousands to keep rigid order.

order that’s now gone, the heavy clashing right outside the castle gate tells so

you however are the remaining hope of the kingdom, your sisters somehow made sure that your good word does not go unnoticed by the general population. so if something were to happen, then you would be safe

hopefully

there is still a chance for you to die though

not by the general population

but by your father. the king.

"princess"

it’s nayeon who checks you up by the door, her witch hat barely doing any good to conceal her identity. despite being one of the most prominent and highly regarded members of the court, you know damn well if they knew what she does at the side then she would be hunted for sport

she slips in and quietly locks the door before putting on a spell for double protection, in one of her hands a journal of well kept spells she's been teaching you.

"he's rampaging again" you whisper as she sits beside you, brushing away any stray hair on your face, your cat purring at her presence "when do you think we'll be able to be free?"

"soon" that's what she always says, you never know when it will be real "it’s time, we must go"

she's already casting a spell before you can ask, reciting it barely louder than a whisper. her usual magic glow only coming from her fingertips, barely seen by the untrained eye

"there" nayeon whispers, her eyes sparkling, always a side effect from her spells "that should do the trick"

“how long do you think we have?” it’s such a risk, but the urgency of her voice makes you move into action, only grabbing a handful of jewels that can be traded for your safety

“not long” she’s already opening the window, urging you to use the makeshift stairs down “hurry, we must not waste time”

so you hurry, you sneak past the guards, you run into the gates, into the gardens, getting closer and closer to the woods. closer to your freedom, closer to your dreams, closer to her arms

you’re already feeling dizzy when you reach the meeting point, eyes taking in a smile you have not seen for so long

“princess”

“my knight”

you throw yourself in jihyo’s arms, the lack of armor making the embrace more welcome, as your hold her as close as possible. right beside her was momo, who gives a kiss to nayeon on the cheek as a greeting

“i miss you” you say it, and jihyo knows this by heart, reading the same words on each letter you wrote to her

despite the lack of affection she shows due to her nature of work, she lets you hold her close, whispering nothing but sweet words you always wanted to hear

time is running out, with each passing seconds of bliss, you are utterly reminded of your situation when momo sees one of the castle guards spotting them, running away to alarm the king

“you must go” jihyo heart breaks having to look at your expression right now, but she must do everything to keep you alive “once i know no one will come looking for you, i promise to let you kiss me any time princess, just how you like it”

"that's funny" you jest, her eyes sparking at you despite the tears you hate to see "you already let me kiss you however i like"

"then you will get more of it" her lips are what keeps you grounded, as she kisses you till you’re the one chasing her lips “but i’m afraid you have to leave princess”

you can’t fight her on this, because you know jeongyeon can only do so much to stall time without exposing the whole plan. they need you alive, she needs you alive

you can't guarantee her survival, yet you ask the universe to see her in the future

“i’ll run to watch sunsets with you my love”

you let her kiss you one more time before you disappear into the garden, once more running away with nayeon and momo into the dark. the last image of jihyo is her unsheathing her sword at the palace guards that charge at her

that image is what keeps on replaying in your head, finding yourself clinging unto the two. trying to keep yourself afloat among all of the chaos

even when you manage to flee to a neighboring kingdom, under the rule of the myoui's, your mind is still a mess. even when you manage to land roles for the three of you, you can't help but feel a bitter taste in your mouth when only three out of four made it to this phase of your plan

"if i may ask" princess mina is quiet, poised and curious. her eyes hold questions you aren't sure you can handle "will i see you marry someone in the foreseeable future?"

you stop writing, and you wonder if a ghost will be a suitable partner for a marriage. you are sure the sadness and longing will never leave you, now when it consumes you

"i'm waiting for someone dear princess" you smile, and she realizes it doesn't reach your eyes "let's not keep your father waiting on your progress on your letters. come, help me deliver your work"

it then takes you even longer for her to see you again, and your souls holds to that promise

this time, you’ve already lived lifetimes without her. always longing, always searching for something you didn’t even know, someone you probably once knew centuries ago

in this lifetime, you’re losing you mind over work, and over dreams you can't understand. over a face you yearn but can not even recognize.

today you are surrounded with loves ones and with people you found acquaintance with, and you think is what birthdays should be. well that is always what you thought it should be, the faces blurring into nothing and everything. voices mingling to generate a buzz in your head

you can only register the voices of your closest friends up until the music gets too loud, the shapes of the room start to look different, the colors of their eyes changing into ones you don't know

so you take a breather, stepping out into the balcony to breath. your own home is now a maze of dizziness and this is the only place you can find solace

"you look like you have lived lifetimes waiting for someone"

dreams seeping into reality, and you are sure you don't know what to do when the face that frequents your nights stand right in front of you. when she looks more beautiful than you could have tried to remember from your dreams

"you look like you are looking for someone" you comment "are you?"

something clicks, you just don't know it yet

“i don’t know” she replies, her eyes trying to understand if you are real or not “it feels like i’m always trying to find someone”

you stare, and you both keep staring at each other until eventually someone calls for her.

“i hope you have a good night” she turns around to leave when the person calls for them again

“i hope you find who you are looking for” you say before she’s back in the noise, where she only stops by the door for a few seconds before getting in

you stumble back in afterwards, nayeon's voice asking where have you been but you can barely focus on her. you can smell mina's cologne and her tipsy haze messing your head. momo's being too loud on purpose that it's splitting your skull, but jeong takes your figure in, deeming that the next stop is a convenience store to sober up.

and even when everyone around you is laughing and hollering, you stare at your burger, trying to decipher what that interaction means

weeks pass by, where dreams get worse and you see her again at the park, where you take a better look at her face. you memorize the way her hair falls on her face, the way the sun hits her just right, how her eyes can capture your soul, and at how she smiles and laughs at her friends.

your heart sputters when you see that it's nayeon and jeongyeon with her, the millions of questions running in your head.

you don't and will never know that someone chants a spell, ensuring that fate will finally be in your favor

before you can leave, nayeon sees you and calls you over. next thing you know you stand across the mystery lady, heart racing and mind hay wiring. she takes out her hand for you to shake, her smile is what knocks every thought in your head

"i'm park jihyo. nice to meet you"

you try to decipher her as much as you can, and when that gets too much in your head you try to block it all out.

before you can, you always bump into her and you go back to square one

trying to find the new shop downtown, you bump into her at the bus stop.

"i can lead you there"

visiting your favorite cafe? she owns it apparently

"i can make your drink, no biggie. don't pay"

in crowds that blur together, she's the only one you can spot immediately

“i keep bumping into you, and i just have to ask if i can take you out on a date?”

and suddenly, you are trying to decipher her when she pulls the door open of her car, when she makes you laugh with her horrible jokes, when she hands you her jacket when it's cold, when you can clearly hear your mutual friends scrambling out of her backyard after preparing tonight's dinner yet all you can think about is her gentle touch, when she serenades you and brings you a slow dance under the moonlight

maybe it's the light, maybe the moon was just shining brighter tonight, maybe it's the garden's magic giving you both clarity

suddenly all you see is a sword, a smile, a knight

and you can't help but sob at the realization of everything

"princess" jihyo's voice cracks, her hand immediately coming up to your face, wiping the onslaught of tears "my princess oh how i've been looking for you"

"you took too long" you kiss her, and you understand why it never felt right to kiss anyone else that isn't park jihyo "my knight oh my knight”

[tttwiceeluvrr]

i know the end — minatozaki sana.

now playing: i know the end - phoebe bridgers.

synopsis - you grow up wrapped around each other, best friends turned lovers, inseparable. but fame finds sana, and slowly, she slips away. love becomes longing, warmth turns cold. you hold on with claw marks, hoping she’ll remember how to love you.

pairing - minatozaki sana x fem reader.

you're six when you first meet her, and it feels like stepping into sunlight after days of rain.

your mother’s hand is firm around yours as you stand in the doorway, the classroom loud with laughter and squeaky sneakers. your new backpack is too big for your shoulders, dragging you down, and you feel small, barely breathing. the teacher says something about finding a buddy, and your stomach twists—everyone’s already paired up, and you’re too shy to speak.

then, like a burst of light, she appears—messy pigtails bouncing as she barrels through the door, cheeks flushed, and a crooked band-aid on her knee. she doesn’t hesitate, not for a second. her eyes land on you, and she grins, toothy and wild, like she’s just found something important.

“hi! i’m sana!” she announces, loud and bright. “wanna be friends?”

before you can answer, her hand finds yours—warm, a little sticky from candy, but comforting. she pulls you towards a table at the back where the art supplies are scattered. you don’t remember saying yes, but it doesn’t matter. it’s like she’s decided for you, like friendship with her isn’t something you choose but something that just is.

“we can make crowns,” she tells you, digging through a box of glitter and pipe cleaners. “mine broke last time, but if we make it together, it’ll be super strong.”

her enthusiasm is magnetic, and before long, you’re twisting pipe cleaners into messy circles, your fingers brushing against hers every few seconds. when she laughs—loud and uninhibited—it’s like a firework, and you can’t help but laugh too, even if you don’t know why.

at lunch, she pulls you to sit beside her, sharing her juice box without a second thought. she talks and talks, about her hamster and how it keeps chewing through its cage, about her dream of being a singer someday. her eyes light up when she talks about music, and you find yourself nodding, entranced, though you don’t really know what debut means.

by the end of the day, your cheeks hurt from smiling. when the bell rings, she grabs your hand again, leading you outside where your mothers are talking. she hugs you tight, arms around your waist, and whispers, “see you tomorrow,” like it’s a secret only the two of you share.

you don’t realise it then, but that day imprints itself on your heart—soft and bright, the first bloom of something that will one day be too big to contain. you spend the walk home pressing your palm to your chest, trying to memorise the warmth of her hand in yours, and that night, you fall asleep with her name on your lips, like a promise.

⸻

you are ten when you realise that sana isn’t just your best friend—she’s your everything.

it’s summer, hot and sticky, and you’re both barefoot in her backyard, the grass cool against your ankles. she’s spinning in circles, arms wide, head thrown back, laughing like she’s trying to catch the sky in her mouth. you sit under the shade of the cherry blossom tree, just watching her, feeling the kind of joy that aches.

when she finally collapses into the grass beside you, dizzy and breathless, she turns her head, eyes bright. “why didn’t you spin with me?” she asks, poking your cheek.

you shrug, not daring to admit that watching her made your heart feel too big for your chest. she doesn’t press you, just tangles her fingers with yours, her palm warm and slightly sweaty. you don’t move, afraid to break the spell.

later, you’re on the floor of her room, colouring together. she’s drawing flowers, messy and vibrant, and you’re sketching her profile without meaning to. when she tries to peek, you cover it with your hands, cheeks hot.

“you’re always hiding from me,” she teases, leaning closer, her breath tickling your ear. you can’t explain it—the way your stomach twists when she’s this close, how her touch lingers like it’s meant to.

that night, you build a fort with blankets, curling up inside with a flashlight and stories whispered into the dark. her head rests on your shoulder, and her hand finds yours again, fingers laced without a second thought.

“let’s stay like this forever,” she murmurs, half asleep.

you don’t reply, too afraid to break the fragile quiet. you just squeeze her hand back, hoping she can feel the way your heart is racing.

⸻

you’re fourteen when you realise that other people are starting to notice sana, too.

it’s not like before, when it was just the two of you spinning in the backyard or whispering secrets under a makeshift blanket fort. now, when she walks down the hallway, heads turn. boys start hanging around her locker, finding reasons to laugh too loud or show off. you hate it, the way they look at her like she’s something to be conquered.

but sana doesn’t seem to notice. she’s too busy singing in the choir room or staying late after school for dance practice. you wait for her sometimes, sitting on the old metal bleachers in the gym, pretending to do homework while watching her spin across the floor.

one day, you’re both lying on her bedroom floor, surrounded by open textbooks and crumpled notes. she’s doodling stars on her math homework, humming under her breath. you wonder if she knows how beautiful she looks, bathed in the soft glow of the afternoon sun, hair messy and cheeks flushed from dancing.

“you should come watch our performance next week,” she says, glancing over with a grin.

you nod, trying to seem casual. “of course. i wouldn’t miss it.”

she nudges your shoulder with hers, close enough that you can feel the heat of her skin. “you’re my biggest fan,” she teases, and you can’t help but smile, even as your chest tightens.

when the performance day arrives, you sit in the second row, hands clenched in your lap. the music starts, and she steps onto the stage, confident and bright, eyes gleaming under the spotlight. your heart swells with pride and something else—something like longing, sharp and sweet.

afterwards, she finds you in the crowd, pulling you into a hug before you can say a word. she’s still breathless, sweat dampening her hairline, but she’s smiling like she’s never been happier.

“did you see me?” she asks, voice buzzing with excitement.

“you were incredible,” you manage, and she beams, pressing her face into your shoulder.

when you pull back, you notice one of the boys from the basketball team watching from the doorway. he waves at sana, and she waves back, casual, oblivious to the way your stomach twists.

that night, lying side by side in her room, sana rolls onto her side, her face so close you can see the flecks of gold in her eyes.

“do you ever think about the future?” she whispers.

you swallow hard. “sometimes.”

she smiles, soft and wistful. “i want to be on stage forever,” she says, tracing patterns on your palm with her fingertip. “and you’ll be there, right? cheering for me?”

“always,” you whisper back, and when her hand slides up to cup your cheek, your breath catches.

she leans in, hesitant, and kisses your cheek, just like that day on the swings, but this time it lingers, softer, warmer. you don’t dare move, terrified that if you breathe too loud, the moment will shatter.

when she pulls back, her eyes are wide, like she’s not sure what just happened either. but she just grins, quick and dazzling, and pulls you into another hug, like it’s easier than facing the confusion between you.

you don’t sleep that night, heart pounding against your ribs, replaying the feeling of her lips on your skin. you think about how her hands felt in yours, about how she doesn’t seem to notice how the boys stare at her.

and you wonder how long you can pretend that being her best friend is enough.

⸻

you’re sixteen when sana tells you she’s going to audition for a big entertainment company.

it’s late, past midnight, and you’re both sprawled out on her bedroom floor in her small seoul apartment, the remnants of instant ramen scattered around you. the city hums outside the window, neon lights seeping through the thin curtains. her voice is softer than usual, almost hesitant—a rare thing for someone like sana, who usually speaks as if the world belongs to her.

“i want to try,” she says, eyes fixed on the ceiling. “really try. not just school performances. something real.”

your heart thuds, heavy and uncertain. you knew this would happen eventually—knew she was meant for something bigger than the school talent shows and dance club competitions. but hearing her say it makes the air in the room feel thin.

“you’d be amazing,” you say, and it’s the truth. you’d follow her voice anywhere.

she turns to look at you, something bright and fierce in her eyes. “you really think so?”

you nod, not trusting yourself to say more. because what you really want to say is, don’t go. stay with me. stay where i can reach you.

a couple weeks later, she calls you, screaming into the phone, half crying, half laughing. “they liked me! they actually liked me!”

you rush to her house, and when she opens the door, she throws herself into your arms. you’re both laughing, tangled together, and when she pulls back, her hands are on your shoulders, gripping tight.

“i’m going to be a trainee,” she says, breathless and triumphant. “i’m really going.”

that night, you sit on her bed, legs tangled together, talking about the future. she’s already dreaming out loud—about late-night practices and learning new dances, about standing in front of thousands of people.

“will you come visit the company building?” she asks, quieter now, like the thought of being apart hadn’t really hit her until this moment.

“of course,” you whisper, and it’s the easiest lie you’ve ever told. because you don’t know if you can handle seeing her change, seeing the industry take her, reshape her into something shinier and less yours.

just before dawn, when you’re both half asleep, she shifts closer, brushing her lips against your temple—a soft, almost accidental kiss. it lingers, warm and uncertain.

you don’t dare move, just close your eyes and pretend that this is enough—that being her anchor will be enough when she’s chasing stars.

⸻

you’re nineteen when sana debuts, and everything changes.

it’s surreal, watching her face on the big screen in the middle of gangnam, her smile radiant and confident. the other members stand around her, each with their own practiced poise, but your eyes never leave her. you’re in the crowd, lost in a sea of strangers, and you feel both proud and terrified.

when the performance ends, the crowd erupts in cheers, and you find yourself clapping too, even as your heart aches. you text her after, a simple you were amazing, and wait, phone clutched too tightly in your hand.

it takes hours for her to reply, just a string of heart emojis and a did you see me?! and you can picture her, eyes bright, almost bouncing on her toes with excitement. you can’t help but smile, even though you know it’s only going to get harder from here.

you don’t see her for weeks after that. she’s swept up in a whirlwind of interviews and dance practice, of photoshoots and choreography revisions. you catch glimpses of her on TV, your stomach flipping every time you hear her name.

then, one evening, when you’re walking home from your part-time job, she calls. her voice is tired but happy, and your heart lurches at the sound.

“i have a break tonight,” she whispers, like she’s sharing a secret. “come over?”

you don’t hesitate, practically running to her dorm. when she opens the door, she’s still in stage makeup, glitter smudged under her eyes. she grins and pulls you inside, arms wrapped tight around your waist.

“i missed you,” she murmurs into your shoulder.

you hold her close, burying your face in her hair. “i missed you too.”

she pulls back just enough to kiss you—soft, lingering, as if trying to make up for lost time. your hands find her waist, fingers slipping under the hem of her shirt, and she shivers, smiling against your lips.

later, you’re lying together on her tiny couch, her head on your chest, your fingers tracing patterns along her spine. the TV is still on, replaying their debut performance, and she snorts softly when she sees herself.

“i look so nervous,” she mutters, cheeks pink.

“you looked perfect,” you correct, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

she tilts her head to look at you, eyes soft and serious. “it doesn’t feel real yet,” she admits. “like… i’m just waiting to wake up and be a nobody again.”

you brush a thumb over her cheekbone. “you’re never going to be a nobody,” you promise. “not to me.”

her lips twitch into a smile, and she kisses you again—deeper this time, like she’s trying to remind herself that this is real too.

you stay like that, tangled together, until she drifts off, exhausted. you don’t sleep, just watch her breathe, the rise and fall of her chest, and wonder how much longer you’ll have moments like this before the world takes her completely.

⸻

you’re twenty, and for a while, it’s good. it’s more than good—it’s perfect.

it’s stolen mornings wrapped in sheets, sana’s face buried in the crook of your neck, refusing to let go even when her alarm blares. it’s her laughter echoing in the small kitchen as you attempt to make pancakes, batter smeared on your nose, and her teasing kisses in between bites.

you don’t see her every day, but when she’s with you, it’s like nothing’s changed. you meet her at the company building sometimes, waiting on the steps with coffee and snacks, and she always runs out with that same radiant smile—bright, unstoppable.

you remember one night when she pulled you onto the rooftop of her building. the city stretched out below, lights blinking like scattered stars. she was buzzing, high off a good performance, eyes alight with excitement.

“can you believe it?” she asked, spinning around, hair flying. “they’re talking about our first award show! i’m really going to be on stage at the melons!”

you couldn’t help but smile at her, so full of joy it felt contagious. “you deserve it,” you whispered.

she stopped spinning, breathless, and turned to you, eyes suddenly serious. “it doesn’t feel real without you there,” she admitted. “sometimes i just want to grab your hand in the middle of the stage and pull you with me.”

you reached out, squeezing her fingers. “i’m here,” you promised, even though you knew you’d never be part of that world, never under those lights.

on quieter days, when she’s not running from schedule to schedule, you lie together on her tiny bed, legs tangled, her head on your chest. she hums softly, the vibrations warming your skin, and you let your fingers comb through her hair.

“do you ever get scared?” you ask one night, voice barely louder than a breath.

she shifts to look at you, lips brushing your collarbone. “of what?”

“of losing yourself in all of this.”

she pauses, tracing circles on your stomach. “sometimes,” she admits. “but when i’m with you, i feel like me. like… the real me. you remind me of who i was before all this.”

you kiss her, slow and tender, and she melts into you, hands clutching at your shirt. you don’t say it, but you know you can’t be her anchor forever.

still, you let yourself believe in the fantasy. you let yourself imagine that this closeness will last. that the city and the fame and the endless demands won’t change the way she clings to you when the world feels too loud.

one evening, you’re curled up on the couch, her head in your lap, when she falls asleep mid-sentence. you watch her for a long time, brushing your thumb across her cheek. she’s so beautiful it hurts, and you wonder how much of her you’ll have left when the world finally realises what you’ve known all along—that sana is meant to be adored.

you don’t know it yet, but these are the golden days—the moments you’ll look back on when everything else falls apart.

⸻

you’re twenty-one when things start to shift, but it’s so subtle you barely notice at first.

it’s not like she’s absent—not really. she still texts you every day, sends blurry selfies from practice rooms, messages filled with heart emojis and silly jokes. she still calls when she gets a chance, usually at odd hours when her voice is sleepy and soft, telling you about how she almost tripped during choreography or how the new vocal coach is terrifying.

you’re used to her being busy. her life has always been this whirlwind of practice and performance, and you’ve learned to be patient, to wait for the rare days when she can spend a few hours tangled up with you on the couch.

but now, those in-between moments feel a little longer. sometimes you’ll text her something funny—a picture of your terrible cooking attempt or a random meme—and she doesn’t reply for hours. it’s nothing unusual, really. you tell yourself that a hundred times.

you still meet up when she gets a day off, and it’s good. it’s normal. she kisses you as soon as she walks through the door, wrapping her arms around you and whispering how much she’s missed you. she doesn’t seem different—just a little more tired, eyes a little darker underneath from the lack of sleep.

one evening, you’re curled up together on her couch, watching some variety show where one of her group members is a guest. sana’s head is on your shoulder, and you’re absentmindedly running your fingers through her hair. she laughs at a joke on screen, but it sounds a bit forced, like her mind is elsewhere.

you don’t say anything, just kiss her temple and let the warmth between you settle.

a few nights later, you’re out with some friends when you see a poster for her group’s upcoming tour. it’s nothing new—they’ve been talking about it for weeks—but seeing her face plastered there, larger than life, makes something twist in your stomach. it’s not jealousy, not really. it’s just this quiet, creeping fear that keeps whispering, this is just the beginning.

when you see her again, you mention the tour, and her eyes light up, all nervous excitement. “can you believe it?” she says, cupping your face and kissing you breathless. “we’re really doing it. i can’t wait to see the fans.”

you smile, trying not to let your worry show. “you’ll be incredible,” you assure her, because you know she will be. she always is.

it’s not until she’s asleep, curled up against your side, that you let the feeling settle in—this quiet ache that maybe, just maybe, her world is starting to grow too big for you. but you shake it off, pressing a kiss to her forehead and promising yourself that it’s just nerves.

after all, nothing’s really changed. not yet.

⸻

you’re twenty-two when it finally dawns on you that she’s slipping through your fingers.

it’s not a sudden realisation—more like a slow, suffocating build-up. you’re used to her being busy, used to waiting for texts, used to staying up late just to catch a few minutes of her time. but lately, even when she’s with you, she’s not really there.

you meet her for coffee one afternoon, and she’s already on her phone when you walk in, barely looking up when you sit down. she’s distracted, scrolling through messages, occasionally glancing around like she’s somewhere else entirely.

“hey,” you say softly, reaching for her hand. she lets you take it, but her fingers are limp, her smile fleeting.

“sorry,” she mumbles. “it’s just… everything’s so crazy right now.”

you nod, forcing a smile. “i get it.”

but you don’t—not really. because even when she’s talking to you, she’s answering emails, her mind still wrapped up in choreography and schedules and press releases.

one night, when she comes home after another late practice, she doesn’t even bother changing before collapsing into bed. you lie next to her, tracing circles on her back, and when you murmur, “are you okay?” she just hums in response, already half asleep.

you wonder when the silence between you started to feel so loud.

you still get glimpses of the old sana—the way she’d kiss your cheek just because, or how she’d insist on cooking ramen together even though she’d burn the noodles. but those moments are rarer now, replaced by rushed phone calls and tired goodbyes.

it’s not that she’s changed, exactly. it’s more like the world around her has grown too fast, too wide, and you’re stuck standing still, trying to catch up.

one evening, you catch her on a live broadcast, surrounded by her members, laughing that familiar, bright laugh. you can’t help but smile at how radiant she looks, but there’s a tightness in your chest that won’t go away.

you realise that while she’s reaching for the stars, you’re the one left holding on to the fragments of what used to be.

⸻

you’re twenty-three when the rumours start.

it’s not even something you’re looking for—you’re just scrolling through your phone absentmindedly when you see the headline: “Rising Idol Sana Spotted With Mystery Woman Late at Night.”

your heart drops. you know how tabloids are, always spinning stories from shadows, but you can’t help the way your hands tremble as you click the article. the photo is blurry, taken from a distance. sana is in her usual oversized hoodie and cap, but her arm is looped around someone’s shoulder, her head tilted close to the other girls.

you stare at the screen, your mind a mess of thoughts, trying to rationalise. maybe it’s a friend, a manager, a member’s sibling. you don’t want to believe it could be anything else.

you text her, casual, just asking how her day’s been. it takes hours for her to reply. busy, sorry. practice went late. you don’t mention the photo. you don’t know how.

the next day, you meet her after practice, and she’s as bright as ever, talking about their upcoming music video, how the concept is different this time. you watch her carefully, looking for signs of guilt or hesitation, but she just kisses your cheek and squeezes your hand.

you don’t ask, because part of you is terrified of what she might say.

a week later, the rumours intensify—more photos, different places. you’re at home when you hear it first, her voice through the thin apartment wall. she’s on the phone, her voice low and serious.

“no, it’s not like that,” she says, frustration seeping through. “i just needed… i needed to feel normal for a while.”

the person on the other end says something muffled, and she laughs, bitter and quiet. “it’s complicated. i just… sometimes it’s easier with her. she gets it. no expectations.”

you sit frozen on the other side of the wall, heart thudding painfully. it feels like the world has tilted off its axis. you don’t want to understand what she’s saying, but the pieces start clicking into place—late replies, distance, the way she’s here but not really here.

when she comes into your room a while later, she’s quieter than usual, sliding into bed without a word. you turn your back to her, trying to keep your breathing steady. she wraps an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your shoulder.

“you okay?” she whispers, voice soft and hesitant.

you swallow the lump in your throat. “yeah,” you manage, forcing a smile she can’t see.

you don’t sleep that night, staring at the ceiling while she breathes peacefully next to you, wondering when loving her became this heavy, this lonely.

⸻

you’re twenty-four when you finally admit it to yourself. 

sana’s not yours anymore.

it doesn’t happen all at once. it’s not a sudden, shattering revelation—it’s more like a bruise, spreading slowly until it colours everything. you spend days convincing yourself that the late nights, the distracted conversations, the way her kisses feel more like apologies than love—it’s just stress, just her schedule pulling her in too many directions.

but deep down, you know. you’ve known since you heard her whispering through the wall that night. still, you hold on, because leaving feels impossible, like ripping out a piece of yourself.

some days, it’s almost like before. she’ll come home from practice, exhausted but smiling, and collapse into your arms. you’ll cook ramen together, the noodles slightly overcooked because you’re too busy stealing kisses. she’ll laugh when you complain about her turning the living room into a dance studio, and for a moment, you can almost believe that nothing’s changed.

but other nights, she’s distant. she’ll get a text, and her smile will falter. you’ll ask her what’s wrong, and she’ll just shake her head, mumbling something about company stress or a new choreography that’s giving her trouble.

you never push. you don’t want to be the reason she pulls away even more.

one evening, you’re cleaning up the apartment when her phone lights up on the counter. you don’t mean to look, but the message preview catches your eye. can we meet tonight? i miss you. it’s from a name you don’t recognise.

you feel cold, rooted to the spot. your hands shake as you put the phone back exactly as you found it, acting like you didn’t see anything. when she comes home, looking exhausted but content, you try to meet her eyes, but you can’t.

she hugs you from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder. “hey, love,” she murmurs.

you force a smile, tilting your head to brush your cheek against hers. “hey.”

you want to ask—want to confront her, make her explain why her love feels like it’s being shared with someone else. but fear lodges in your throat, suffocating you. if you ask, it becomes real. and if it’s real, you have to do something about it.

so you stay quiet. you let her kiss your neck, whisper something about missing you, and you pretend it’s enough. you hold her a little tighter, hoping she won’t notice how your hands tremble.

that night, while she sleeps, you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the city lights flickering through the window. your chest aches, and you wonder if love is supposed to feel this heavy—like you’re drowning, and no one’s reaching out to pull you up.

you know the truth, but you’re too scared to face it. you’re too scared to lose her, even if keeping her means holding onto something that’s already gone.

⸻

you’re twenty-five when you start to forget what happiness feels like.

it’s been months since you saw that text, months of swallowing your suspicions and pretending everything is okay. some days it almost works—you convince yourself that she’s just tired, that the exhaustion in her voice is from overwork, not guilt.

but then there are nights when she comes home, smelling faintly of someone else’s perfume, and you can barely breathe. you tell yourself it’s just stage makeup or a stylist’s touch, but it doesn’t sit right in your gut. your instincts are screaming, but you’re too afraid to listen.

you don’t say anything. you just keep playing your part—the supportive, understanding partner who doesn’t ask too many questions, who doesn’t push too hard. you tell yourself it’s enough just to have her come home to you, even if it’s not all of her.

one evening, you’re folding laundry when you hear her on the phone in the other room. you freeze, ears straining to catch the words.

“no, it’s not like that,” she says, her voice tense. “i just… i can’t keep doing this. it’s too complicated.”

silence, then a muffled reply. you can’t make out the words, but her response is clearer.

“i don’t know what i’m doing,” she admits, voice breaking. “it’s like… i’m losing control of everything. and sometimes, i just need something that’s mine. something that doesn’t expect anything from me.”

you sink to the floor, laundry forgotten. your mind races—who is she talking to? who makes her feel like she’s in control when you apparently don’t?

when she comes out of the room, she barely glances at you, just mutters something about needing a shower. you don’t move from your spot on the floor, legs too weak to stand.

that night, when she curls into bed beside you, you stay awake, staring at the ceiling. when her hand reaches for yours, you flinch before you can stop yourself. she pauses, her fingers hovering, and then pulls away, rolling over to face the wall.

you want to apologise, want to reach out and pull her back into your arms, but your hands feel frozen, your chest hollow. you know if you speak now, your voice will break.

the next morning, she’s gone before you wake up—a note on the counter saying she has early practice. you sit at the table, staring at her rushed handwriting, wondering when you became so terrified of losing someone who’s already halfway out the door.

you make coffee, but it tastes bitter, and you leave it untouched on the counter. you wonder how long you can keep pretending, how long you can survive loving someone who doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

⸻

you’re twenty-six when you finally hear it.

you didn’t mean to eavesdrop. it wasn’t intentional. you’d come home early, hoping to surprise sana with takeout from her favourite place. but as you’re unlocking the door, you hear voices inside—hers and someone else’s, low and muffled.

you freeze, hand still on the handle, the key half turned. through the thin wood, you can just make out her voice, tight and frustrated.

“i don’t know how much longer i can do this,” she says, and the tone of her voice hits you like a slap. “it’s too complicated. she’s always waiting for me, always there, and i just… i need space to breathe.”

there’s a murmur from the other person—a deeper voice, soothing, familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist.

“you know i care about her,” sana continues, her voice softer now, almost guilty. “but it’s like… i’m suffocating. sometimes i just want to feel… free.”

you don’t realise you’ve stopped breathing until the room spins. you steady yourself against the doorframe, heart hammering in your chest, bile rising in your throat.

you don’t hear the rest. you can’t. your hands are shaking too much, and you feel like you might crumble right there in the hallway.

you retreat, as quietly as you can, slipping back down the stairs, out into the cool evening air. you sit on the steps, your hands still wrapped around the takeout bag, the plastic crinkling under your grip.

you don’t know how long you stay there—long enough for the sky to darken, for the city lights to blink on. eventually, you hear footsteps behind you. it’s her. she’s alone.

“oh! you’re home early,” she says, surprise colouring her tone.

you force a smile, one that doesn’t reach your eyes. “yeah. thought I’d surprise you.”

she leans down, pecking your cheek, but you can’t move, can’t reciprocate. her lips feel cold against your skin.

“you okay?” she asks, brows knitting together.

you nod, swallowing down the knot in your throat. “just tired,” you lie.

that night, she falls asleep with her head on your chest, and you stare at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the paint, wondering when the version of sana you fell in love with turned into someone you barely recognize.

you should leave. you know that. but when her hand finds yours in the dark, squeezing softly, you can’t help but squeeze back, letting her take what little remains of you. because loving her still feels like the only thing you know how to do.

you spend the next few weeks in a daze—going through the motions, letting her use you as her comfort when she’s exhausted, ignoring the guilt in her eyes when she slips into bed beside you.

you tell yourself that this is love—staying even when it’s tearing you apart. letting her find solace in you when she’s burnt out from being someone else’s dream. convincing yourself that a fractured version of her is better than not having her at all.

you’re not sure how much longer you can keep convincing yourself of that lie.

⸻

you’re twenty-seven when you finally see it for what it is—you are just a place for her to land when the world gets too heavy.

the cycle has become predictable. she disappears for days, caught up in rehearsals, photoshoots, industry parties. you don’t ask where she’s been or who she’s been with. you don’t want to hear another excuse or feel the pang of betrayal when she offers a weak, tired smile.

when she comes home, she’s worn out, eyes hollow, and you let her crawl into your arms without a word. she clings to you, like you’re the only solid ground in a world that keeps spinning too fast. you feel her desperation, the way she kisses you like she’s trying to remember who she used to be.

it’s always like this—she leaves, she slips away, and then she comes back, unraveling in your arms, needing your warmth to stitch herself back together.

you can’t bring yourself to say no. even when you catch glimpses of texts on her phone—messages that make your stomach twist, names that aren’t yours. you swallow the hurt, tell yourself that it’s just the industry, that she’s trying to survive.

one night, she comes home late, her movements sluggish, and you help her out of her jacket, ignoring the unfamiliar cologne lingering on the fabric. she doesn’t say much, just buries her face in your shoulder, muttering apologies that don’t make sense.

“i’m so tired,” she whispers, voice cracking. “just… just let me be here.”

you don’t respond, just guide her to bed, letting her drape herself over you like a broken doll. you stroke her hair, your touch gentle, even as your heart splinters with every soft breath she takes.

it’s in the way she doesn’t kiss you hello anymore. in how her hands hesitate before touching you, as if remembering someone else’s skin. you know she’s slipping further away, and you’re just holding onto the ghost of her—whatever pieces are left that still want you.

one evening, you’re making dinner when she comes in, phone pressed to her ear, laughing at something the other person said. when she sees you, her smile falters, and she quickly says goodbye, shoving the phone into her pocket.

“work call?” you ask, keeping your voice light, casual.

she hesitates, glancing at you before nodding. “yeah. just… stuff about the new choreography.”

you don’t call her out on the lie. you just stir the soup, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from saying something that will shatter whatever is left between you.

that night, as she sleeps beside you, you reach for her hand under the blankets, but it’s cold, limp in yours. you let go and turn away, tears burning behind your eyes.

you can’t remember the last time she looked at you like she used to—with that light in her eyes that said you were the only one who mattered. now, when she sees you, it’s like she’s seeing a memory—something faded and worn out.

you wonder when you became just another part of her routine—something she uses to remind herself of a life that doesn’t fit her anymore.

and you realise that staying is no longer an act of love. it’s an act of fear—fear of letting go, fear of being without her, even if she’s not really yours anymore.

the thought terrifies you, but the truth is more painful: you’re just a safe place for her to come back to when the world burns her out. and you’re not sure how much longer you can bear being a sanctuary for someone who’s already forgotten how to love you.

⸻

you’re twenty-eight when sana comes home just past midnight, the weight of exhaustion settling into her bones. practice had dragged on far too long—nothing seemed to click, and her manager’s words still echoed in her head. you’re losing focus, sana. get it together.

she fumbles with the keys, pushing the door open, expecting the familiar glow of the living room lamp, maybe your soft voice asking if she’s eaten yet. but the flat is dark, eerily silent. something cold sinks into her stomach.

“babe?” she calls out, her voice too loud against the quiet.

no reply.

she flicks on the light, blinking against the sudden brightness. the place look emptier. feels emptier. 

she kicks off her shoes, ignoring the niggling feeling gnawing at the back of her mind. she moves through the hallway, calling your name again, but the air feels thick, suffocating.

it’s only when she enters the bedroom that it truly hits. the bed is made—neatly, like you never left it. her eyes catch on the folded piece of paper on your pillow, your handwriting stark against the white: sana.

her hands start to tremble as she picks it up, unfolding it carefully. she can’t breathe—doesn’t dare to—because there’s something final about this. something irreversible. 

dear sana,

i’ve always had a problem with letting go. the things i leave behind always have claw marks on them—proof that i tried to hold on far too long, long past the point of saving them. you are the deepest claw mark on my heart. i thought if i held on tighter, you’d remember how to love me again. i thought if i loved you hard enough, i’d be enough.

but i’ve realised something—love shouldn’t make me feel this hollow. i shouldn’t feel like i’m begging for scraps of your affection, waiting for those fleeting moments when you remember to look at me like you used to. you stopped singing for me, sana. you stopped coming home with stories and kisses, and i kept telling myself it was just the stress, the pressure. that once things settled, you’d find your way back to me.

i was wrong.

the truth is, i’ve been losing you for a long time. maybe i should have let go when you first started slipping away. maybe i shouldn’t have clung to the memories of who we used to be, convincing myself that love was enough to hold us together. but i did. i held on, even when it hurt. even when loving you meant forgetting how to love myself.

do you remember that night on your balcony when you sang to me? it was raining, and you were embarrassed, but you still sang that silly pop song because i begged you to. you were so beautiful—hair damp, cheeks flushed, voice cracking on the high notes. i think that was the first time i knew. knew that i was in deep, that you had your hands around my heart without even realising.

but now? now you come home smelling like someone else, and you lie to me with a straight face. i hear you whispering to her on the phone when you think i’m asleep. you stopped choosing me, and i let you, because the thought of being without you was too much. i thought it was better to have fragments of you than nothing at all.

i can’t do it anymore. i can’t keep waiting for the pieces of you that remember to love me. i can’t keep holding on to someone who doesn’t want to be held. you’ve made me feel small, like i’m only worth the leftovers of your affection, like i’m the thing you return to when the world leaves you exhausted. i deserve more than that. i deserve someone who looks at me like i’m their first choice—not a backup plan.

i love you. god, i love you so much that it’s destroyed me. but i can’t keep breaking myself just to keep you whole. i hope one day you realise what you’ve lost. i hope it keeps you awake at night the way i’ve been kept awake, wondering what i did wrong.

but i’m letting go now. it’s the hardest thing i’ve ever done, but i have to. because if i don’t, i’ll lose the last pieces of myself I’ve got left.

goodbye, sana.

the letter slips from her hands, fluttering to the floor. she feels like she’s falling, the room spinning around her. her knees give out, and she collapses onto the bed, hands clutching the duvet, gasping for breath.

her mind races, images flashing like a montage—the way you’d smile when she came home, the way you’d always know just what she needed after a long day, how you’d make her feel grounded when the world felt too big. she never thought you’d actually leave. she always thought you’d be there—waiting, loving, forgiving.

she lets out a broken sob, burying her face into your pillow, inhaling the faint scent of you that still lingers. the realisation crashes over her—she let you go without even noticing. she was so busy chasing her dreams, so consumed with being someone everyone loved, that she didn’t see you slipping through her fingers.

her phone vibrates in her pocket, and she scrambles for it, clicking on your number with trembling hands. it rings, and rings, and rings, until it cuts to voicemail. 

her voice cracks as she speaks. as she begs. “please… please come back. i’m sorry. i didn’t know… i didn’t realise. please. i love you. i swear i love you. just… just come home. i’ll do better. i promise. just… come back.”

the message ends, and she’s left staring at the screen, hoping you’ll call back, hoping it’s not really over. she curls into herself, your letter crumpled in her hands, sobbing into the empty space you left behind.

she thought she could have it all—fame, success, you.

but she was wrong.

she had you, and she didn’t even realise it until you were gone.

now, she’s alone.

drowning in regret.

realising that some losses can’t be undone.

some mistakes can’t be taken back.

⸻

[tttwiceeluvrr]

Everytime I see new posts under twice ITS ALL MALE READER

[tttwiceeluvrr]

So you are telling me…that i-dle re-recorded their hit songs from OT6 era WITHOUT SOOJIN?

I get she’s not coming back but…? I’m not listening to a version of lion or oh my god without soojin. HWAA WITHOUT SOOJIN??? Absolutely not.

While I’m happy it seems like Shushu got most of soojins lines, you want me to listen to LION WITHOUT HER??? TO OH MY GOD WITHOUT HER?? LA TA TA????

TO UH-OH WITHOUT HER??

Girl, bye. I’ll make my own playlist with these songs on it but with soojin thanks.

[tttwiceeluvrr]

Hi kino I missed you kino

LOST IN TRANSLATION — J-LINE TWICE

" that whole ‘i wanna touch’ thing… we’ll save it for next time. "

synopsis — it’s 3 a.m. in los angeles when you step into an elevator with momo, sana, and mina, unaware that they’re members of TWICE. while they joke about your height and looks in japanese, you stay quiet, until..

notice — i don’t speak japanese, so any japanese phrases used in this story were translated using reverso/google translate and might not be 100% accurate. please forgive any mistakes—and feel free to gently correct me if needed! this is all just for fun and vibes. pairing — sana x mina x hirai momo x reader. disclaimer ! this is a work of fiction. while TWICE is a real k-pop group, the characters in this story are fictionalized based on their public personalities. i do not own TWICE—i only own the story and original character(s). this was written purely for entertainment purposes, with respect to all individuals involved. genre — oneshot.

the streets of downtown los angeles looked like they were holding their breath.

3:07am.

los angeles at 3am was a different kind of quiet. not empty—but softened, like the whole city had exhaled and gone still. the distant hum of traffic was a low pulse in the background, and the air, warm from a lingering spring day, still carried the faint scent of car exhaust and jacaranda trees in bloom.

you were already regretting your decision to hit the gym this late, but there was no turning back now. the oversized hoodie hung loose over your frame, the sleeves hiding half your hands. your gym bag thumped lightly against your hip with each step. you had your headphones on— no music yet, just the silence that came before the rnb playlist started.

insomnia had won again. and when sleep didn’t come, movement did. the gym in the basement was open twenty-four hours, and the thought of hitting the bag for an hour seemed better than staring at your ceiling for the third night in a row.

you hit the button for the elevator with your knuckle, yawning into your sleeve.

ding.

the moment the doors slid open, your brain short-circuited.

three girls were already inside, laughing. loud. barely holding onto their food as they turned around mid-conversation. the scent hit you first—soy sauce, grilled meat, something fried and sweet, maybe donuts. it was like walking into a late-night food truck festival.

they looked up in unison.

one had dumplings in her mouth. literally. mid-bite. the second had strawberry milk in one hand and a chicken sandwich in the other, her expression stuck somewhere between surprise and delight. and the third—hood up, sleeves over her palms—blinked slowly like she hadn’t quite caught up yet.

you stepped in, the doors closing behind you.

the silence was immediate.

momo swallowed first.

“背の高い”

(tall.)

you heard it. clear as day. but you didn’t react. just lifted your water bottle to your lips, watching the elevator numbers tick down.

sana leaned in toward momo, stage-whispering like she wasn’t absolutely audible. " まって、LAの人ってこんなにストイックなの？”

(wait, are people in LA really this intense?)

“たぶん。” momo smirked, eyes dragging from your shoes to your hoodie to your face. “でも、めっちゃタイプ。”

(maybe. but they’re totally my type.)

you kept your face neutral, eyes forward. the air smelled like sesame oil and seaweed snacks and something caramelized. there was a crunch—sana tearing into what looked like a fried chicken sandwich with absolutely no shame. mina stood closest to the elevator buttons. she glanced at you, then down at the floor. then back at you.

“アメリカ人ってああいう感じかな。” she mumbled, half to herself. (i guess americans look like that.)

“ああいう感じってどんな感じ？” momo asked, nudging her.

(what do you mean ‘like that’?)

“なんか…かっこよくて静か。” mina replied.

(like… cool and quiet.)

“それもあなたの好みですか？” sana teased, nudging mina’s arm.

(is that your preference too?)

“彼らはあなたの言うことを聞くことができません、さあ。” sana elbowed her, snorting. “ここアメリカよ？絶対わかんない。”

(they can’t hear you, come on. we’re in america. there’s no way they understand.)

mina turned pink.

you bit your lip, just barely hiding the smile tugging at your mouth.they didn’t know. they really thought you couldn’t understand a word.

“わたしがタイプって言ったのに。” momo muttered, fake-offended.

(i already called dibs.)

“じゃあジャンケンで決めよう。” sana offered, mouth full.

(rock paper scissors for it, then.)

“餃子があるから無理。”

(i’m holding dumplings, i can’t.)

you finally moved—shifted your gym bag onto your other shoulder. the elevator made a soft ding. one more floor.

the scent of sesame oil and fried chicken filled your nose. momo’s shoulder brushed yours as the elevator moved. her arm stayed close. too close. you could feel the warmth through your hoodie.

“彼らの腕を見てください” momo whispered to sana, thinking she was being slick.

(listen, seriously look at their arms.)

sana giggled. “触りたい”

(i wanna touch.)

“私たちはそうすべきでしょうか？” momo asked, completely unserious but somehow entirely serious.

(should we?)

then your phone rang.

you picked it up without a word, answered with the calmest voice you could muster.

“兄さん、今ジムに行くの。”

(brother, i’m going to the gym now.)

dead silence.

it was instant. you didn’t even have to look to know their eyes were huge. but you did. you turned your head just enough to see them in the mirrored elevator wall—wide eyes, open mouths, and a dumpling midair in momo’s chopsticks.

you continued, casually. “エレベーターの中で面白いことを聞いたばかりだ ちょっと面白い”

(just heard some interesting stuff in the elevator. kinda funny.)

a strangled noise came from behind you.

“日本語…？” mina blinked.

(japanese..?)

“彼らは完璧にそれを話します..” sana whispered, scandalized and thrilled.

(they speak it perfectly..)

you hang up the slight sound evident. you turn your head slightly.

sana was slack-jawed, strawberry milk and chicken sandwich forgotten. momo was wide-eyed, mid-bite again. mina looked like she wanted to melt into the floor.

you gave them a slow smile—lazy, just a little smug. “ありがと。ちなみに、私はそれらの賛辞を早く聞きました。”

(thanks. i heard those compliments earlier, by the way.)

“やっば…” sana whispered, covering her face.

(oh no...) mina made a sound that might’ve been a laugh. or a squeak. maybe both. also looked like she wanted to disappear into her hoodie forever.

you took a step toward the door. paused. let the silence simmer. “君たち3人でゲームを決めよう。” you said, smiling. “誰が勝っても私は地下室にいるよ。”

(you three will decide who win. whoever wins ill be in the gym basement.)

ding.

you stepped out as the doors slid open, tossing a glance over your shoulder.

“「触りたい」ってことは…次回に取っておきましょう。”

(that whole ‘i wanna touch’ thing… we’ll save it for next time.)

the last thing you heard before the elevator doors closed?

“なぜ彼らはあなたのタイプだと大声で言ったのですか!？”

(why did you say out loud that they were your type!?)

"サナ、あの人に触れたいって言ったでしょ!"

(sana, you literally said you wanted to touch them!)

“やめて…” (please stop...) — mina.

kino's note — your sleep deprived writer is back! (sort of) missed my pretty girls and i got this inspo while out on a run at 6am

[tttwiceeluvrr]

dreaming of you — park jihyo. (part 2)

now playing: somebody else - the 1975, it ain’t me, babe - timothée chalamet, dreaming of you - cas.

synopsis - it’s christmas break when you return home from oxford and meet your soon to be SIL— park jihyo. what begins as civility simmers into glances, tension, yearning and something neither of you dare to name. but how long can almost hold its shape when someone else learns to love you out loud? part one.

pairing - park jihyo x fem reader.

chapter thirteen:

it is the answer you expected.

it's not like you thought she would break. thought she would say no—in a fit of something fierce, something that burns, that screams for freedom, for the love she’s denied herself.

it's not like you thought she would let go of the thing she wasn’t meant to hold.

but instead, she speaks the words that seal it.

words that pull you further into the past, into a history you thought you could outrun.

and yet, despite the ache blooming in your chest, despite the feeling of your world tilting sideways, you stay still.

you stay silent.

sana notices.

sana always notices.

her fingers gently tighten around yours, a quiet understanding passing between you.

the officiant asks your brother the same question.

he answers just as easily, just as sure.

and that’s it.

it’s done.

they’re bound.

together.

the crowd erupts in applause, and you want to feel happy for them.

you want to feel like everything has fallen into place, like the weight of it all is lifting.

but instead, there’s only that same quiet ache.

you glance at sana.

her eyes—soft, full of empathy—hold yours.

and for a moment, the rest of the room falls away.

it’s just the two of you.

you don’t speak.

but sana doesn’t need to ask.

⸻

after the ceremony, there’s a flurry of activity.

everyone moves like they’re supposed to.

laughter rings through the air, glasses clink together in toast.

the photographers snap their pictures.

but you?

you can’t look at jihyo anymore.

not after the vows.

not after the way she smiled when she said i do.

you don’t go up to her.

you don’t congratulate her.

because it’s a lie.

and you’re tired of lying to her.

so, instead, you slip away.

out into the cool night air.

away from the laughter.

away from the promises being made.

and sana follows you.

she doesn’t ask where you’re going.

doesn’t wonder why you’re leaving.

she just walks beside you, her arm brushing against yours, close enough to remind you that she’s there.

you don’t talk.

but you both know.

⸻

chapter fourteen:

the courtyard is empty, washed in gold, the faint hum of laughter behind you softening into nothing. ivy creeps along the old stone walls, flowers in the last few days of standing strong before the seasons change. it’s the kind of quiet that dares you to breathe honestly.

the clacking of you heels slows down, echoes folding into silence and sana slows down but stops just next to you, letting her signature perfume linger infront of you for a second, grounding you. 

she doesn’t call your name. she doesn’t need to.

you feel her presence like gravity—warm and waiting. she stands a few paces away, not pressing, not demanding—just there. always.

your shoulders fall. she watches. the silence isn’t heavy with things unsaid—it’s laced with understanding. and in that stillness, something inside you begins to unspool.

you step closer to her.

and her gaze moves past you for a second, looking not far over your shoulder.

it’s instinct. the way your hands find her waist, the way your fingers curl around her hips like you’ve done it a hundred times. she’s in front of you, sunlight catching in the curve of her lips, and suddenly, she’s everything. everything you’d tried to bury beneath duty and distance.

you press her softly—deliberately—against the cold stone wall. the air between you trembles.

sana’s eyes trace your face, and you—god—you look wrecked. not in the ruined way, but in the way someone does when they’ve carried something far too heavy, for far too long

your hands squeeze the flesh of her hips—not in desire, but in relief. 

your eyes search hers. and then, you kiss her.

not urgently. not hungrily. but like the world has finally stopped spinning and you want to make sure she’s real.

your hands remain at her hips, holding her together as much as you’re holding yourself. her arms encircle your shoulders, drawing you closer, as if she’s memorising your edges, as though she already knows the ache living in your chest, as though she’s always known how to soothe it.

and when the kiss breaks, you rest your forehead against hers. your breath is uneven, your voice thinner than it should be.

“you changed everything,” you whisper, barely more than a breath. “i came back not knowing who i was anymore. my hands felt like they belonged to someone else. my name didn’t taste like mine. and then you—”

your voice falters, but sana doesn’t move, doesn’t break eye contact, doesn’t let you stop. you exhale like you’ve never breathed truth before. “then you happened—soft as spring, sudden as lightning. you reminded me that i wasn’t built only for survival. that i could live. feel. laugh without guilt. you looked at me like i wasn’t something to fix, but something to love.”

your voice breaks—fragile and beautiful.

“i don’t know how you did it. but you reached into the ruins of me and brought light.”

and then, sana’s lips find yours in a kiss that is all need, all truth, all surrender. it isn’t sweet. it isn’t tentative. it’s aching. unrestrained. the kind of kiss that comes after silence has said too much.

you kiss her back with equal heat.

and as you do, sana, never breaking away, takes your right hand—the one closest to the entrance—and gently moves it from her hip to the curve of her ass before one of her hands tangle—ruin—your hair whilst the other rests against your nape, pushing you into her, grounding you to this moment—to her. 

a slow, deliberate act of intimacy. of ownership. of belonging. of knowing.

because sana saw. 

sana saw the flicker of movement near the arched entrance to the courtyard as you turned to each other, a white gown caught in the shadows as its owner pauses mid-step. her named lodged in sana’s mouth but she doesn’t speak it, doesn’t warn you. 

sana saw jihyo. 

and she wanted jihyo to see this, too. 

sana wanted jihyo to know what loss really looked like. 

sana, though, didn’t see jihyo turn, her chest hollow, gown whispering behind her like regret, vanishing back into the warmth of the hall—but nothing touches her. not the lights. not the laughter. 

and the courtyard remains, bathed in gold and breathlessness. your breathing slows, your hands anchored in something soft and certain.

you don’t know jihyo saw.

but sana does.

⸻

the reception hums with warmth and laughter, the golden hues of the setting sun casting long shadows across the hall. guests clink glasses, share stories, and dance to the soft melodies drifting from the quartet in the corner. amidst the celebration, jihyo stands near the entrance, a flute of champagne untouched in her hand.

her gaze is distant, fixed on the ornate doors leading to the courtyard. the image of you and sana, entwined in a kiss, replays in her mind—a scene she stumbled upon moments ago. the confession she overheard echoes louder than the music around her.

“you changed everything… you reminded me that i wasn’t built only for survival… you reached into the ruins of me and brought light.”

jihyo’s grip tightens around the glass, the chill of the drink contrasting the warmth creeping up her neck. she forces a smile as a guest approaches, offering congratulations. she nods, words escaping her, and excuses herself to the powder room.

inside, the mirror reflects a composed bride, but her eyes betray the storm within. she places the glass on the counter, her hands trembling slightly. taking a deep breath, she steadies herself, recalling the vows she exchanged earlier.

“i promise to stand by you, to support you, and to cherish the bond we share.”

she closes her eyes, the weight of those words pressing heavily on her chest. the bond she spoke of now feels fragile, threatened by truths unspoken and feelings unacknowledged.

a soft knock on the door pulls her back. it’s her maid of honour, checking in. jihyo assures her she’s fine, just needed a moment. with a final glance at her reflection, she straightens her posture and exits, rejoining the celebration.

as she steps back into the hall, the music swells, and guests cheer as the newlyweds take to the dance floor. jihyo smiles, taking her husband’s hand, and begins to dance. yet, beneath the surface, her mind lingers on the courtyard, on the confession, how it would feel if it was your hands on her hips, and on the choices that lie ahead.

⸻

you don’t fully notice sana slip away. she doesn’t make it a spectacle. just a gentle brush of fingers along your spine, a whisper of her perfume trailing behind her, like an unspoken promise that she’ll return. and you’re still deep in polite conversation, half-heard laughter ringing like old silverware, your smile stretched too thin over old memories and newer ghosts, but you feel the quiet pull of her absence in your pulse. 

the corridors are quieter now, shadows leaning long over the tiled floors. the reception feels a hundred miles away in these stone halls.

in the powder room, it’s hushed. soft lighting, faint scent of rose water curling around the edges of the mirror.

jihyo stands at the far sink, her hands braced on the edge, head tilted downwards slight as if staring too long into her own silence. her gown clings around her waist like a second skin, white and heavy and suffocating. she doesn’t move when the door opens. doesn’t flinch when the soft perfume of someone else cuts into the stillness.

but her spine stiffens when she hears the rustle of silk, the click of heels. the rhythm of them—light, confident, familiar. a sound from years ago.

then, in the mirror, sana begins to appear behind her—like a secret catching light.

sana enters like she always does—effortlessly. her presence doesn’t demand attention, it earns it. quiet thunder. sugar over sharp steel.

jihyo lifts her head slowly.

sana meets her gaze in the glass with all the ease in the world, pulling a lipstick from her small clutch. calm. poised. she uncaps it, leans forward, and begins to reapply the soft rosy pink shade to her already kissed mouth, humming softly over the trace you left on her lips. 

the silence is thick, but sana hums again. almost playfully.

then—without looking at jihyo—almost sensing the judgement, she says, “not that it’s any of your business, but i wouldn’t have anything to fix if your husband’s sister hadn’t kissed me like she meant it.”

the swipe of the lipstick pauses halfway.

she lets that settle. cruel? no. deliberate. because sometimes truth needs to sting before it can settle.

jihyo stares, the burn behind her ribs slow and sickening.

“she never told me,” she says quietly, voice dry.

“about what?” sana’s tone is mild, unbothered, but her reflection glints.

jihyo turns fully now, arms folded. “about you. her. this.”

“she didn’t know me when you met her,” sana replies, finally capping the lipstick with a soft click. “you were history before i even became a footnote.”

“and now?” jihyo asks, hollow.

“now?” sana steps back, turning to have her side to the mirror before moving her head and giving herself a once-over. she tucks the lipstick away, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. “now i’m her present. maybe even her future. god, i hope i am her future.”

jihyo swallows. it sounds louder in the still room than it should. and it has the sana turning to look at her. 

sana tilts her head, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “i used to think you were someone unreachable. the one everyone adored.”

jihyo’s jaw tenses.

“but i’m sure you never looked at her the way i do,” sana adds, voice low now, almost reverent. “you wanted her quiet. small. digestible. i want her loud. untamed. the way she’s meant to be.”

jihyo’s mouth tightens. 

and the mirror reflects both of them—one with heartbreak blooming like bruises in her chest, the other bathed in the soft glow of a girl who has already won.

but sana isn’t done. 

“you loved being the centre of everything,” sana says, her tone soft, almost thoughtful. “but you know she never looked at you the way she looks at me. never let you touch the parts of her she hides from everyone else.”

jihyo’s hands curl tighter around the basin edge.

sana’s voice lowers, a thread of fire beneath velvet. “you were comfort. she was survival. but me?” she tilts her head. “i’m the thing that makes her live.”

jihyo swallows hard.

sana pushes off from the counter, brushing past her with deliberate grace.

“but don’t worry,” she adds as she reaches the door, “she still hasn’t realised she deserves happiness. not fully. but i’m not going anywhere. i’ll remind her every morning. every night.”

a beat.

a look over her shoulder.

a short few seconds of eye contact. 

“and every time she smudges my lipstick.”

the door clicks behind her.

and jihyo remains.

surrounded by mirrors that reflect nothing but what she couldn’t be.

and jihyo remains.

a statue cracked through the middle—not by anger, not even by loss.

but by the unbearable ache of almost.

⸻

jihyo leaves the powder room with mascara dry but grief still somehow simultaneously soft and harsh beneath her ribs. the reception is warm again—golden with light and laughter—but the edges of it blur around her, distant and humming like a memory she isn’t in anymore.

she doesn’t look for you.

not at first.

but her eyes find you anyway.

you’re standing now, half-turned toward the seat beside yours, a small yet genuine smile already tugging at your lips as sana returns to the table. the chair she’d once claimed is now taken by someone oblivious, someone loud with wine and joy, and you, without missing a beat, step back from the table and gesture gently to yours.

“take mine,” you offer, quiet but certain.

sana pauses, still a few steps away, her gaze trailing over the open seat, over you before smiling.

and then, in one unhurried motion, she closes the space between you.

her hand rises, presses softly—right above your heart. the pressure is feather-light, but the meaning behind it is not.

“sit,” she says, barely above a whisper, and it echoes through you like something sacred.

you do.

and before the air even has time to still, sana follows—one hand brushing the curve of your shoulder, the other gathering her dress delicately in her fingers as she turns and sits.

not facing you.

not straddling you.

but sideways, her legs draped elegantly over one side of yours, her thigh aligned with yours, her body leaned in—intimate, poised. her side rests lightly against your front whilst her arm wraps around your shoulders. 

her profile is soft in the golden light.

the whole thing is effortless. devastatingly so.

your arm slips instinctively around her waist, fingers splaying across the fabric at her side. the warmth of her seeps through her clothing and yours, into you. she smells like night jasmine and the aftertaste of secrets shared in stairwells. like everything good you never thought you deserved until she arrived.

her head tips gently, her temple brushing yours. the room quiets around you—not in sound, but in presence. she’s all you feel.

you barely notice jihyo.

but sana does.

sana sees her standing at the edge of the crowd, half-obscured behind hanging lights and the lull of conversation. her dress glows in the golden light, a perfect silhouette of composure she no longer feels.

but sana doesn’t flinch, doesn’t turn her head.

she simply leans in closer, her hand putting down her clutch on the table infront of you before resting over the hand you’ve got on her hip, thumb sweeping back and forth with casual reverence.

and softly, with the smallest curl of her lips, she murmurs something into your ear—low and private, something that blooms heat in your chest, something that brings a slight blush to your cheeks, something that makes you exhale like you’ve forgotten how to hold air without her.

jihyo looks away.

she doesn’t see your smile. 

but sana does.

and sana smiles too, her body curved into yours, her legs crossed at the ankles, perfectly still, perfectly at ease—like she belongs exactly where she is.

because she does.

she fits there like she’s always belonged. the soft press of her thigh against yours, the curve of her resting lightly against your, one arm drapes across your shoulders, fingers brushing the side of your neck with absent reverence, yet casual and claiming.

you don’t breathe for a second.

don’t blink.

don’t even try to pretend your heart isn’t thudding like it’s trying to say something you haven’t yet dared to voice.

sana leans in, her lips curving into a slight smirk before brushing the shell of your ear, and murmurs—softly, just for you—“hope you weren’t planning on going anywhere.”

and god, the way she says it.

like it’s not a joke.

like it’s a truth she’s offering you on the tip of her tongue.

⸻

the reception swells—opulent, golden, thick with celebration. laughter blooms like wildflowers in spring: bright, unruly, full of things people will forget come morning. light spills across crystal and silk, champagne glasses held high like promises, like blessings, like something fragile pretending to be eternal.

but despite the room’s warmth, the glow and hum of joy, you feel distanced from it. not excluded—no, never that—but quietly separated, as though your body is here, but your belonging exists elsewhere.

anchored, instead, in the delicate weight of sana in your lap.

her back rests gently against your chest, the slope of her shoulder tucked beneath your chin like it was made to fit there. her presence isn’t loud—it doesn’t have to be. it’s known. felt. the world narrows to her shape against you, the way her breath stirs when you shift, the subtle curve of her spine aligning with your heartbeat.

she traces circles on your wrist—slow, patient, reverent. not aimless, not idle. it’s a rhythm, a pulse, a reassurance. she’s not drawing patterns. she’s writing devotion.

and in that, you’re still.

the crowd ebbs and flows around you, words tossed like flower petals, fleeting and soft. people speak—some to you, some to her—and you answer, of course. you nod, you smile, you laugh when it’s required. but there’s always a tether pulling your attention inward, back to her. to the way her fingers hold your hand beneath the linen-draped table. to the way she occasionally leans into your collarbone, like she belongs there, like she’s always belonged.

you don’t realise you’re being watched until your gaze scans the hall—slow, unhurried—and finds jihyo.

and suddenly, the air shifts.

she’s across the room, seated beside your brother. their hands rest near each other on the table, the distance between them whispering louder than touch ever could. her posture is pristine, all poise and composure, but her eyes betray her. her eyes never learned the art of pretending.

they meet yours like a secret caught mid-breath. like guilt. like grief.

her smile is the kind that belongs to someone who remembers joy but no longer feels it. it’s neat. beautiful. soulless. the kind of smile that photographs well.

but her gaze—god, her gaze is ruin.

and she cannot look away.

sana notices. of course she does.

she always notices.

you feel her shift, a movement so small it barely registers—but it speaks volumes. the arm she had resting along your shoulders curls closer, the line of her body sinking further into you. her presence becomes declaration. soft, steady. unshakeable.

i’m here.

i’m hers.

i’m staying.

your lips find her bare shoulder without thought, without ceremony. it’s not for show. it’s not for her. it’s not even for you.

it’s for truth.

jihyo’s glass trembles.

a single flicker, a quake of a moment, and then stillness again. no one else sees it. no one else is looking close enough to notice a woman unravel in silence. but you do. and she knows you do.

your brother rises.

a toast, he says.

and the room obeys.

the murmur fades. cutlery stills. champagne is lifted in expectation.

sana remains, poised in your lap, her side warm against your front, her head turning slightly toward your voice when you murmur something no one else can hear. you thread your fingers through hers again beneath the table. she holds back just tightly enough to make your pulse spike.

the toast is everything it should be—measured, warm, laced with hope and all the sweetness tradition demands. he speaks of partnership. of building. of the beauty of promise.

he speaks of jihyo.

and jihyo listens.

but not to him.

because even as the crowd cheers, even as glasses clink and laughter breaks free again, her eyes remain fixed—unmoving, unblinking—on the image across the room:

you, with someone else wrapped around you like truth.

you, smiling into someone else’s collarbone like it’s your truth, your home.

you, alive.

you, in something that looks a little too dangerously like love.

and in her silence, there is minimum envy. the rest, mourning.

not for what she lost.

but for what she never had.

and still—still—you don’t let go of sana’s hand.

because sana is not yours to mourn. sana is yours to keep. 

and you are not jihyo’s to keep. you were never jihyo’s to keep. 

and beside you sits the woman who found you in the aftermath and taught you—slowly, gently, fiercely—how to live again.

⸻

through the door, the stars blink faintly above the city, veiled behind warm smog and the faint haze of celebration still clinging to your clothes, your skin, the air itself. the reception is behind you now—almost everybody left in the late-late hours of the night, you and sana, though, chose to stay till the early hours of the morning because it is what was expected of you. 

sana walks beside you.

or—she would be, if she hadn’t stopped three steps before the doors, huffing out a dramatic breath before reaching down to tug at the straps of her heels.

“i can’t take one more step in these stupid things,” she mutters, crouching to unbuckle them. “they’re trying to kill me.”

you watch, amusement barely contained, as she straightens with the shoes dangling from one hand and her other hand already reaching for yours.

“they’re beautiful,” you tease gently.

“beauty is pain,” she replies, deadpan. “but right now, pain is pain. and i refuse to suffer any longer.”

you open your mouth to offer your arm again, but she steps closer—closer than before—until her breath warms your collarbones and her eyes glint with something dangerously soft beneath all that mischief.

“carry me,” she says sweetly. “please?”

you blink. “seriously?”

she tilts her head, pretending to think. “unless you want me walking barefoot through the car park and getting my feet dirty.”

“you’ll survive.”

“i won’t,” she insists, stepping even closer, head tilting up slightly to look you in the eyes as her face pauses a few inches from yours. “my dress is too long. i’ll trip. i’ll fall. i’ll die dramatically. it’ll be on your conscience forever.”

you narrow your eyes, though sana’s eyes drop down to your lips when she catches them twitch, and it has her smirking when she realises you’re struggling to hold back a smile. 

“you’re ridiculous.”

“i’m yours,” she murmurs, quieter now. and somehow it feels less like flirtation and more like a truth she’s been trying to tell you longer than all night.

you sigh, but your hands are already at her waist, lifting. she gasps, laughing as you sweep her off the ground, her arms flying to loop around your shoulders.

her heels drop to the ground with a soft clatter and she somehow convinces you to be the one to pick them up whilst holding her.

“you’re lucky i like you,” you murmur, shifting her until she’s balanced in your arms, light and warm and real and your comment makes her scoff.

“don't lie,” she corrects, smiling, nuzzling into your neck like it’s second nature. “you adore me.”

you don’t argue.

you carry her across the empty lot, her dress trailing like strands of moonlight behind you, her victorious laughter--when she realised you didn't disagree to her correction-- pressed against your skin, her fingers tracing shapes along the back of your neck. 

“you know,” she whispers, “this is the kind of thing i’ll remember when we’re old.”

you glance at her, brow raised. “me carrying you around in a car park?”

“no,” she says, smiling sleepily, dreamily. “you choosing to. without needing to be asked twice.”

you tighten your grip just slightly. “you only asked once.”

“exactly,” she murmurs.

the night holds its breath as you reach the car.

and for a moment, nothing else matters.

behind you, on the low-lit patio, your parents step out into the cooling air. your mother is the first to see. she stills, her hand brushing her husband’s arm. 

“look,” she whispers.

your father turns, eyes following her gaze. you and sana, wrapped around one another like a vow already made, her smile hidden against your cheek, your hands steady, unhurried.

they say nothing for a moment. just watch.

“i can’t remember the last time i saw her that happy,” your mother says quietly, almost to herself. “i really like sana, in general and for her.”

your father nods. in agreement. in understanding.

a breath behind them, jihyo stands with your brother. she didn’t mean to overhear. 

but she does--considering they were walking in silence.

she sees, too.

the way sana tucks herself deeper into you, the way your fingers slide instinctively up her back, like muscle memory. the way you whisper something that makes her laugh against your neck, soft and sure and unguarded.

jihyo doesn’t flinch. not outwardly. but something in her stills.

and she remembers the weight of all the words never said aloud, the long silences filled with almosts and maybes, the ache of loving someone who was never fully yours to begin with.

she remembers what it meant to be chosen second, even if only in the heart.

beside her, your brother’s voice breaks through gently. “they look happy.”

jihyo doesn’t answer. her hands remain by her side.

because the truth is: there was never anything physical. never a line crossed beyond glances that lingered too long, comfort that felt too deep. but still, it was enough to hurt. and sana had known. had always known.

and now she was the one being held.

being chosen.

being kept.

you press a kiss to sana’s hair. she sighs into you like it’s her favourite sound.

and you place her in the passenger seat of the mercedes waiting for the two of you, making sure she’s fully on the seat before pulling back—though sana grabs your wrist before you can shut the car door and pulls your face to hers, hand moving to cup your face, gazing lovingly into your eyes before whispering a soft, small ‘thank you’ against your lips. 

without apology.

without regret.

without looking back.

⸻

chapter fifteen: 

its been a few weeks since your brother and jihyo have come back from their honeymoon. 

it’s past midnight and the city is breathing heavy outside your window, lights flickering like they’re trying to remember what they meant to illuminate. you’re sitting on the floor of your bedroom’s balcony, legs curled beneath you, a half-eaten peach in your hand, juice clinging to your wrist. sana’s behind you in one of your old university hoodies—hair damp, face soft with sleep and affection.

“you’re thinking again,” she says, voice low and oddly amused, brushing your hair over your shoulder.

“i always think,” you reply.

“yes, but you only frown like that when it’s about her.”

you don’t deny it. sana doesn’t press.

instead, she sinks down beside you, chin tucked into your shoulder, her arms wrapping around your middle. it’s the quiet that follows that makes you ache—not because it’s empty, but because it’s kind. her fingers find yours, sticky with fruit and thought. she brings your hand to her lips.

“let her live in your past,” she says softly. “i’ll build the rest with you.”

and you nod softly. 

⸻

two months after that, you take sana to a modern art exhibit downtown. she pretends to be serious, folding her arms and tilting her head at every canvas like she’s trying to crack a code. she’s wearing all black, hair pinned up, and she looks like she belongs in a frame herself.

she catches your staring—not at the art, but at her.

“what?” she murmurs, flustered.

“you’re more interesting than half of this.”

“which half?”

“the expensive half.”

later, she finds a little sketch on the back of the gallery pamphlet while you’re up ordering some food for the two of you in the café opposite that has her taking a picture before stuffing the pamphlet in her handbag—her profile drawn in smudged graphite, a tiny caption underneath: prettier and worth more than the whole damn exhibition.

⸻

shortly after that, you’re out at dinner with friends, and one of them—a girl from high school—laughs a little too long at your jokes, places a hand on your arm when she talks. it’s innocent. harmless.

but sana sees it. she always does.

after dessert, she loops her arm through yours as you say goodbye, leans into your side as you walk to your car. her voice is low enough not to carry, sweet enough to bite.

“do all your old friends flirt like that, or is it just the ones with bad taste in wine?”

you turn to her, trying not to smile. “you jealous?”

“i don’t get jealous,” she states, matter-of-factly,. then, after a beat, holds your face in her hands. “i just don’t share.”

you kiss her against the sleek body of your car, in the backseat, hands tangled in her silk blouse, her name soft against your teeth. the rest of the night she kisses you like she’s making a point—and you let her.

⸻

months after, you fight. badly. loudly. over something stupid that blooms into something sharp. words thrown like stones, truths tangled in heat.

sana leaves for a few hours. doesn’t call.

you spend the time pacing the house, running your hands through your hair, replaying everything.

when she returns, she doesn’t say anything. she walks over, cups your face in her hands, and kisses you like an apology. like a prayer.

“i hate fighting with you,” you whisper against her lips.

“then let’s fight less,” she murmurs. “and love more.”

she drags you to bed, not for sex—not this time—but for stillness—her body curled into yours, arms wound tight around each other like a promise.

⸻

the day after, it rains for hours. heavy, cleansing rain. sana insists on dragging you onto the balcony barefoot, faces turned to the sky, laughter tumbling from your chests like the thunder overhead.

you’re both soaked through within minutes.

she spins you around like it’s a movie, like the water hasn’t chilled her bones. you’re breathless, grinning, blinking past raindrops. she kisses you in the downpour, slow and deliberate.

“this is what love should feel like,” she whispers against your lips.

you believe her.

because you know. 

⸻

a couple of weeks go by and jihyo’s name in calligraphy arrives one morning in the post.

you leave it unopened on the counter.

sana sees it, but says nothing.

hours later, you find it gone. thrown out. not exactly cruelly. just quietly.

“you’re allowed to leave ghosts behind,” she tells you when you ask.

you wrap your arms around her waist and bury your face in her neck. “i’m only haunted when you’re not here.”

“then i’ll stay,” she replies, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. and maybe, for her, it is.

⸻

eighteen months since you had your first encounter since sana. 

but, still, no anniversary to mark. no grand occasion.

just a morning. sunlight. the smell of coffee. the sound of sana humming from the kitchen.

you find her barefoot again, hair messy, one sleeve falling off her shoulder as she pours two mugs.

you slide your arms around her from behind, press a kiss to her neck, startling her slightly. 

“what?” she says, giggling.

“i love you,” you answer, like it’s nothing new. like it’s everything.

she turns in your arms, hands sliding up your front before resting at your nape, eyes watery. “good. because i’ve already built my life around you.”

and after your lips part from hers, she rest her head against your chest, listening to your heartbeat.

"i love you, y/n."

⸻

the restaurant is tucked away at the edge of the city, candlelit and quiet, the kind of place where the world slows down enough to hear your own heartbeat. fairy lights twist around the beams above, soft jazz curling through the air like breath. sana looks like she belongs in the golden glow—hair in loose waves, a silk slip dress clinging to her with enviable ease, laughter rising from her throat like sunlight through water.

your heel taps nervously beneath the table.

she catches it—of course she does—and slides her foot over yours. grounding you. steadying you.

“you okay?” she asks, voice low, affectionate, like a secret passed beneath the tablecloth.

you nod. swallow. smile. “yeah. just… a lot on my mind.”

“i can tell.” she leans forward, propping her chin in her hand, eyes catching candlelight like they were made for it. “you always chew the inside of your cheek when you’re nervous.”

you blush, caught.

but she’s smiling, not teasing. like she’s memorised every nervous habit you have and decided to love you anyway.

after dinner, you walk—barefoot across the grass of a park you once told her felt like home. the moon is low, honey-bright, and the city hums gently behind you. she leans into your side, head on your shoulder, and it’s so easy to pretend the world has always been this soft.

then you stop walking.

she looks up.

you take a shaky breath, your hands trembling just enough to be noticed.

“sana,” you start, “i don’t think i’ve ever loved someone like this before.”

her lips part, but she says nothing. waits.

you press on. “it’s not just the way you kiss me. or the way you remember how i take my tea. or the way you never ask me to explain the past but you still hold it like something sacred. it’s the way you exist in my thoughts without trying. like breath. like gravity.”

your voice breaks a little, but you don’t stop.

“when you touch me, i feel whole. not in the way people write about in books. not in some cinematic, fireworks way. it’s quieter than that. it’s… it’s peace. it’s safety. it’s knowing i’m not too much or not enough. i’m just—yours.”

she blinks, something fragile blooming in her expression.

“and i know we never put a name to this,” you continue, softer now, “but i’d really like to. if you want. if you feel it too. i want to be yours. properly. out loud.”

you pause.

“will you let me be your girlfriend?”

the question hangs there, trembling in the hush of night.

sana stares at you like she’s seeing a constellation rearrange itself just to spell your name.

then—she steps forward, cups your face in both hands, and kisses you so gently it feels like the first time all over again. when she pulls back, her thumb traces your cheek, her eyes shining.

“i’ve been yours,” she says, barely a whisper, “since the second you looked at me like i crazy when i came in ridiculously late for my architecture lecture.”

you exhale—sharp, aching, relieved.

and she kisses you again.

not like a yes.

but like a promise.

⸻

the dining room glows in soft amber—candles flickering in shallow glass bowls, laughter curling like smoke through the air. glasses clink like windchimes in a breeze, and your mother’s voice threads gently through the quiet between courses, warm with memory and red wine.

jihyo sits a little straighter than usual, her posture too poised, too careful. the fabric of her dress doesn’t breathe right. her smile, as always, is precise.

your brother laughs beside her, easy and unburdened, and she’s grateful he doesn’t notice the way her hands remain folded in her lap, fingers locked like a prayer she forgot the words to. your father talks about you—about how you’ve softened lately, about how your laugh has come back in full, how you’re not carrying your shoulders like armour anymore, how you are as free and unburdened like you were as a child. 

“it’s sana,” your mother says simply, as if that explains everything.

and somehow, it does.

jihyo stills.

your father hums in agreement, cutting into his food. “they’re good together. i’ve never seen y/n like this. grounded, but not smaller, lesser, tamed. it’s like she’s finally allowed herself to bloom.”

“they balance,” your mum adds, like it’s the kindest thing in the world. “sana knows how to hold her without holding her back and y/n knows the same for sana.”

jihyo doesn’t respond. her mouth feels dry, like her tongue’s been dusted with ash. the fork in front of her gleams. she watches it catch the light. she nods, absently, like she’s still part of the moment. like her heart hasn’t dropped so low in her chest it’s begun to ache in a way she can’t name.

she hears your name again—soft, wrapped in fondness—and suddenly she’s not here. she’s standing at the entrance of a courtyard months ago, wearing white that didn’t feel like it belonged to her, watching you press your mouth to someone else’s skin. hearing you speak words she didn’t know she’d wanted for herself until they were no longer hers to claim.

her throat tightens. she takes a sip of water, but it doesn’t help. it just reminds her that nothing quenches something that was never fed.

“they’ve been official for a while now, haven’t they?” your mother continues, her tone light with the joy of someone who believes she’s only ever speaking good news.

“yes,” your father confirms, “but you can tell. they look at each other like there’s no one else in the room.”

jihyo breathes through her nose. one long inhale. one long exhale. she smiles—just barely.

and then your mother turns to her, her voice warm and sincere. “you must be so proud of her, jihyo. you were such a good friend to her through everything.”

the word lands like a stone.

a good friend.

the kind that watches someone else step into the space you never got to grow into. the kind that shows up in silence, and leaves in silence too.

jihyo doesn’t flinch. she’s too practiced for that. but something inside her fractures—quietly. cleanly.

she lifts her gaze and offers a soft nod. “i am,” she lies, and the ache in her chest almost makes it sound true.

it’s not like she’s not not proud of you, it’s the fact she’s not proud of herself—her choices. 

how can she be proud of someone when she’s not proud of herself?

the conversation swells again, warm and alive around her. but jihyo drifts, only half-there, watching a future unfold that no longer needs her. a future where your joy belongs entirely to someone else.

and she knows—deeply, bitterly, beautifully—that she was never the story you were meant to finish.

she was only the echo before the song.

⸻

chapter sixteen:

the night begins like any other on holiday—heat clinging to the edges of skin, the scent of the ocean curling in soft around you. somewhere in thailand, far from the noise of familiarity, you and sana get dressed for what she thinks is just a quiet dinner at a private beachfront restaurant. the kind with linen tablecloths and low lighting, the kind where everything tastes like salt and slow intention.

she wears white. not by plan, but by fate. a silk dress that falls against her body like it was made only for her. your hand never quite leaves her back. not as you eat. not as you laugh. not as she feeds you a spoonful of her dessert with that grin—the one you always fall into.

after dinner, you tell her you want ice cream. she rolls her eyes, playfully, fond and predictable, but lets herself be tugged along by the hand. you walk barefoot from the edge of the hotel down toward the beach, sandals dangling from her fingers, your other hand carrying two melting cones. the tide sighs in and out, golden with the last light of the day.

sana’s talking about something trivial—how the sunset looks like sorbet, how her dress is too nice to be touching sand—when she sees it.

the setup rests just ahead of the shoreline. the sky has broken into a thousand shades of amber and rose behind it. tall candles flicker in curved rows. petals blanket the sand like snowfall, soft and surreal. and in the centre: a heart made entirely of white flowers, wrapped in the quiet glow of hidden lights. sparklers pulse gently on either side, casting brief bursts of shimmer across the scene. and in the middle of it all, glowing in soft cursive against the orange dusk:

「愛してる、湊崎紗夏。」

「i love you, minatozaki sana.」

her handbag--prada-- drops, forgotten, into the sand.

you don’t speak yet. just take a step forward, your hand reaching for hers. the photographer—hidden behind a drift of palms—lifts their camera quietly, as if the moment itself had asked for it.

“this,” you say, voice low, reverent, “this is what i’ve wanted since the moment you looked at me like i wasn’t something impossible.”

her eyes are already glossed over. wide. breathless.

you guide her forward, through the petal-strewn path, until you’re both standing beneath the arch, caught in the middle of something that feels like a dream folded into reality.

you take her hands—both of them—and bring them to your lips, pressing a tender kiss to both.

“before you, i thought love was just a slow unraveling. i thought it was all quiet goodbyes and holding back and waiting to be chosen. but then you came along—and suddenly, nothing about love felt like waiting anymore. it felt like breath. like flame. like the tide remembering the moon.”

sana blinks, and a tear slips down her cheek. you brush it gently away with your thumb.

“i love you in ways i never knew how to name. in silence, in noise and in song. in every laugh i didn’t know my body could hold. i love you in the way you look at the world. in the way you touch it. in the way you touched me and somehow made every broken part soft again.”

her lips tremble. 

“i don’t just want to marry you, sana. i want to live the rest of my life falling in love with you in all the tiny ways people forget to write about. i’m tired of going out and the world being loud, i want to stay in, with you, and let you be my noise, my silence, my all. i want you to be my always. my again. my home.”

you pull out the ring—shaking, golden, trembling in your fingers like it knows exactly who it belongs to.

you lower to one knee.

“so, minatozaki sana, will you marry me?”

sana is silent for only a moment. a heartbeat. and then her whole face folds into light. into yes. into everything.

when she leans down to kiss you, it’s not for the camera. not for the flowers or the sky or the memory.

it’s just for you.

and somewhere, the shutter clicks softly—capturing forever, wrapped in candlelight and tears and the tender press of two foreheads touching beneath a burning sky.

⸻

summer hums around you like a remembered song—slow, sticky with sunlight, generous in its heat. the garden is a sprawl of life: laughter stitched into tree branches, plates stacked with grilled skewers and wilted salads, glasses catching the light like they’ve swallowed small suns. someone’s brought a speaker, and music drifts lazily through the space—old, familiar songs that sound like they’ve always belonged to afternoons like this.

your mum flits between dishes, waving off offers of help, always busy but never flustered. your dad is in his element by the barbecue, flipping things with purpose, sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. your brother lounges with a drink in hand, telling a story about something no one fully remembers, but everyone laughs anyway.

and jihyo is there, on a folding chair under the shade, her legs crossed neatly, her eyes wandering in quiet intervals. she wears her smile like jewellery—elegant, understated, slightly too polished.

you arrive with sana, hands linked but casual. her dress is the colour of clear, early skies, and her laughter rings easily, catching in the sky above. you’re wearing linen trousers and a knitted white tank top. 

the two of you bring a dish to the table, a marinade you’d both spent the morning fussing over in the kitchen before getting distracted making out—for quite a while. you’re a little late. no one minds.

the afternoon unfolds around you—sips of rosé, someone losing at cards, your mum trying to convince everyone to take home leftovers already. the light begins to soften, slipping into gold.

your dad, mid-bite, gestures at the covered dish you’d carried in earlier. “this,” he says, licking sauce from his thumb, “this is something else. what d’you two call it?”

you look at sana. she looks at you.

and in the pause—soft, deliberate, fragile as breath—you feel it open.

“we haven’t named it,” you say, voice quiet but certain. “we just made it to celebrate.”

your mum tilts her head. “celebrate what, darling?”

sana’s right hand finds your left under the table.

you don’t see anything but sana—sana raising her left hand, lips pulled into the widest grin possible, eyes shining more than the rather large diamond sitting a top of her ring—when she announces, “we’re getting married.”

the words land gently. no spectacle. no performance.

and still—it feels like the earth shifts.

your mum gasps, loud and immediate. her drink sloshes in her glass as she puts the flute down. your dad blinks, then grins wide enough to crease the corners of his face. your brother lets out a victorious laugh and congratulates you both. someone knocks over a chair in the rush of movement. someone starts clapping.

but jihyo—jihyo doesn’t move.

her glass is frozen mid-air. her mouth twitches at the corners, forming something quiet, something small. and for a beat, her eyes linger not on you, but on the space between you. your joined hands. your closeness. the glow that never quite dims when you look at sana.

but no one sees her stillness.

no one but sana. 

and you almost do, but your focus shifts because your mum is already tugging sana to her feet, wrapping her arms around her like she’s always been family.

“tell me how she did it,” she says, breathless. “the proposal. i need details.”

sana laughs, cheeks flushed. her eyes flick to you—mischievous and soft.

“we were in thailand,” she begins, voice warm and light but tinged with reverence. “she told me we had dinner reservations, just the two of us. said it was something fancy so i should dress up. i just thought it was just a nice night out.”

your mum’s already swooning. your dad leans in, intrigued, an entertained yet genuine smile pulling at his lips. 

“we got ice cream after, even though we literally shared a slice of cheesecake at the restaurant,” sana says. “walked back along the beach, barefoot in the sand. and then—then i saw it.”

she closes her eyes for a second like she can still see it. “candles. petals. a huge heart made of flowers—big enough to tower over us slightly. and in the middle, written in lights, it said: ‘i love you, minatozaki sana.’ but in japanese. like something out of a dream.”

your brother whistles. your mother sighs dramatically. your dad slaps his hand against your shoulder a few times with a proud smile gracing his face. 

“she didn’t say anything at first—like she didn’t trust herself to say anything, couldn’t trust her voice—just led me infront of it,” sana says. “held both my hands. and she just… she just looked at me. like i was the answer to a question she’d been asking her whole life. and then she said, ‘i’m tired of going out and the world being loud, i want to stay in, with you, and let you be my noise, my silence, my all. i want you to be my always. my again. my home.’ and at this point i’m crying, trembling, but she ignored it and she asked—‘minatozaki sana, will you marry me?’”

someone murmurs a quiet “aww” from the other side of the table but your too focused on how breathtaking sana’s side profile looks. 

“she was shaking,” sana adds. “but she was glowing. like she knew. like she already saw the life we were going to have. and so i said yes. obviously.”

your mum is crying. your dad wipes his eye discreetly behind his sunglasses, claiming a speck of dust got into his eye. 

and jihyo—jihyo is still. silent. the tip of her finger trailing the rim of her glass.

her eyes are fixed on her lap. but you feel her gaze like a ghost—lingering on the shape of your happiness. the light you give to someone else now.

but the moment moves on without her.

because everyone is looking at you. at sana. at you and sana. at the way you touch without even noticing. at the way you don’t stop smiling.

you lean into her shoulder, press a kiss to the top of her hand.

and under the hum of the garden, under the hum of everything, you know—

this is it.

your future is already here.

⸻

the planning is slow, soft, golden-edged.

saturdays melt into afternoons on the living room rug—shoes off, shoulders bare, the sky pouring itself across the floor through sheer curtains. swatches of fabric lie like fallen petals across the coffee table: lace, silk, tulle. some the colour of champagne, others the faint blush of roses left out in sun.

sana picks them up one by one, holding each to your skin like she’s painting you in dreams. “this one’s almost the colour of your mouth after red wine,” she murmurs, and you smile without looking up, distracted by place card samples.

sometimes sana speaks in whims, sometimes in precision. but always in love.

there’s swatches of fabric draped over the back of your sofa, menus scribbled on notepads flecked with coffee stains. sana circles dates with a pink pen, her handwriting looping like it’s dancing across the page. you argue gently over flowers, not because you disagree, but because you like the way she pouts when she pretends to.

you sit on the floor one evening, barefoot and surrounded by invitation samples. candles flicker on the windowsill, music hums low in the background. sana’s curled against your side, her fingers absently tracing hearts onto your knee.

“this one,” she says, tapping a thick card with gold foil pressed into the corners. “it’s elegant. romantic. very us.”

you smile. “too expensive.”

she leans in, lips brushing your cheek. “so’s your taste in women.”

you smile. 

“also, darling, in case you’ve forgotten, you, y/n l/ n, are one of the top lawyers of the country, and i, minatozaki sana, am one of the top architects,” she moves her head, teeth grazing your ear before her lips brush against your ear as she whispers, breath hot. “and, minatozaki sana always gets what she wants.” 

“mhm, are you sure about that, miss minatozaki?”

“very sure, mrs. minatozaki,” her lips brushing your jaw. “i got you, didn’t i?”

you end up picking that card.

then there’s laughter over dinner menus. she wants a dessert table. you want ice cream trucks. both of you want dancing barefoot by the end of it all. she writes notes in the margins of your shared planning journal:

don’t forget to breathe.

kiss her before the cake.

remind her she’s beautiful. she’s the problem. she’s the solution. she’s everything. she’s home. 

she’s yours. 

⸻

it arrives on a thursday.

the post hits the floor with its usual indifference—thin envelopes, takeaway menus, the slow trickle of unwanted obligation. jihyo doesn’t rush to it. the world has taught her, lately, that news rarely arrives with mercy.

but then she sees it.

a small rectangular box. thick. weighty. her name and his in unfamiliar calligraphy—sana’s. careful like the edge of a held breath. 

her fingers pause above it. she recognises the wax seal before she even touches it—pressed with the shape of a flower she once pointed out to you on a rainy walk home. the irony doesn’t escape her. not now.

the kettle hisses in the background. her husband hums to himself, slicing strawberries for breakfast. something soft plays on the speaker—jazz, maybe. the room feels too light for what’s about to unfold.

she opens it.

slowly.

as if each fold might reconfigure time itself.

and there—on the thick, bone-coloured card, threaded in rose-gold ink—are your names. yours and sana’s. intertwined. blooming into each other like twin vines that had always known how to tangle.

a wedding.

a celebration.

jihyo’s chest tightens like a violin string pulled too far.

she reads it again.

and again.

but it doesn’t change.

you’re getting married.

to her.

to the girl who walks like twilight, who has a face even the most skilled could not recreate. 

the girl jihyo watched take your hand when the rest of the world had already let go.

she presses her fingers to her mouth like they might catch the noise building in her throat. but there’s nothing to hold. not really. just silence. just that same small ache that has lived in her ribs for months now, growing in quiet rebellion against the life she chose.

she sets the card down.

but her eyes don’t move.

your names blur.

beneath them, a line she hadn’t noticed at first:

“i love you, minatozaki sana.”

written in japanese, like a secret language she was never meant to learn.

“something good?” her husband asks, walking in with two cups of tea.

jihyo blinks, turns, lets the smile rise slowly—carefully crafted, like porcelain. “wedding invitation,” she says, voice all breath and false brightness. “y/n and sana’s.”

and jihyo says it with composure, all collected—like it’s not your name that undid her for since she first laid her eyes on you almost four years ago.

he grins. “about time they sent those out.”

jihyo’s throat is dry. she reaches for her tea. “yeah,” she says. “it’ll be beautiful.”

he kisses her cheek, and the warmth feels foreign. borrowed. not meant for her skin.

and when he turns away, she allows herself one more look at the card. lets her fingers graze over your name like a goodbye she’s said a thousand times but never once out loud.

you’d found the kind of love that didn’t flicker in shadows. the kind that built itself into vows and candlelit altars. the kind that didn’t wait.

jihyo, meanwhile, is still learning how to stop looking for you in every quiet moment her husband doesn’t fill.

and across the room, on the table, the invitation sits open—soft, radiant, final.

⸻

chapter seventeen:

the morning spills in golden—tender and wide and quiet. it folds itself over the earth like a blessing, brushing along the rooftops, seeping through curtains, warming tile and skin alike. and in two different rooms, two different hearts stir awake, already tethered across the day.

sana wakes first.

her hotel room is soft with linen and light, the sound of the sea somewhere in the distance—gentle, almost shy. the sheets are still tangled around her legs, her robe slipped from one shoulder, the scent of her perfume faint on the pillow beside her. she sits up slowly, fingers combing through sleep-mussed hair, and for a moment, she just breathes.

she’s calm. mostly. but there’s something trembling beneath it—a heartbeat too loud, a breath too deep, like her body already knows what this day means. she walks to the window, pulls the curtain open, and lets the sun paint her in gold. her reflection in the glass looks like a beginning. her mouth lifts, just slightly.

meanwhile, in another room just a few floors down, you’re sitting cross-legged in your pyjamas, staring at your wedding shoes like they might bolt. your mother hums around you, fluffing your veil. your friends flutter in and out, bringing coffee, bringing laughter—but your thoughts stay fixed.

on her.

on what today becomes the second she looks at you and smiles like you’re the only future she’s ever imagined.

you press your palm to your chest. it feels like someone lit a candle behind your ribs.

the morning drifts on.

somewhere between breakfast and ceremony, a note arrives.

no cold feet allowed.

unless you want me to warm them ;)

~ your almost-wife x

you laugh out loud. you press the note to your heart. your bridesmaid calls it cheesy. your mother calls it love.

outside, the guests begin to arrive.

and among them, jihyo.

her dress—black—is tailored perfectly. her husband’s hand rests at the small of her back. they look like a portrait—but she, inside, feels like a bruise in bloom.

she watches from afar as people take their seats. watches your brother shake hands and laugh with relatives. watches the staff light candles along the aisle, each one flickering like a held breath. and when the music starts, her fingers curl slightly at her side.

⸻

and when jihyo snaps out of her own world, her eyes find your figure at the altar, waiting patiently for her. 

clad in a white gown, silk and certainty. 

your hands don’t shake. 

but your breath does—trembles beneath your ribs like a prayer that knows it’s about to be answered.

the orchestra picks up and begins to play the wedding march. 

every guest had risen, anticipation hanging thick in the air.

jihyo steadied herself as she turned around to face the doors, bracing for the first glimpse of her—radiant, resplendent, adorned in a bridal gown that could only be described as a masterpiece. a vision of refined opulence, elegant yet commanding, destined to seize attention the moment her presence was revealed.

and then, the doors flung open—not gently, not incrementally, but swiftly, decisively—offering no teasing glimpse of satin or silhouette, no preview. only the full force of minatozaki sana, unveiled in totality, like the unveiling of something divine.

the weight of her arrival hit like a gasp.

jihyo’s breath caught and her practiced smile faltered. 

sana’s makeup was flawless—neither excessive nor bare. it struck that rare, precise balance, the kind of polish that amplified her already ethereal beauty.

her skin was immaculate—glowing with a soft, velvety luminescence that rendered her almost celestial. highlighter had been swept across the high planes of her face—her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose, her cupid’s bow—gifting her with that elusive, lit-from-within radiance.

her eyes were masterfully defined, a gradient of warm, smoky browns blended seamlessly across her lids, deepening at the edges. a sharp flick of obsidian liner lifted her gaze, adding quiet intensity. long, feathery lashes framed her eyes, lending a doe-like softness that captivated without effort. her brows were shaped and filled—never severe, never overdone, just sculpted enough to anchor the look with elegance.

on her lips, she wore a timeless rose hue—demure, classic. 

sana’s hair had been styled with meticulous precision—an effortless illusion. a low, sleek bun gathered at the nape of her neck, each strand smoothed into place with surgical perfection. the style revealed the graceful line of her throat and the exquisite structure of her jaw. a few tendrils had been left loose, curled softly to frame her face with a deliberate tenderness that contrasted beautifully with the austerity of the bun.

sana’s jewellery was minimal, but spoke volumes—each piece chosen with exacting care and quiet grandeur. at her neck sat a diamond embellished necklace—delicate yet dazzling, composed of perfectly cut stones set in cool platinum. it rested just below her collarbones, cascading close to her décolletage, glinting with her every breath—a quiet testament to both elegance and affluence. 

her ears bore pearls, their elegance rivalled only by the brilliance of her gaze, her. 

and, naturally, on her ring finger was the centrepiece of it all—the engagement ring you had given her. a marquise-cut diamond of staggering size, flawlessly set in platinum. grand yet tasteful. not merely a ring, but a symbol—of devotion, of status, of forever.

the bouquet in sana’s right hand made jihyo’s mouth run dry. a cascading composition—methodical yet undeniably romantic—featuring orchids, ivory roses, baby’s breath, lily of the valley, and the rare, coveted crown of destiny tulips. elegant, unforced, yet artfully constructed, it echoed the essence of the woman about to walk down the aisle.

but,

the dress.

sana’s wedding gown was a breathtaking creation—couture, custom-designed to her exact silhouette, and executed with a kind of reverence reserved for royalty.

the fabric—silk satin of the highest quality—clung to her figure with a scandalous grace, embracing her form from bodice to hip like a second skin. it sculpted her body with a precision that defied nature, celebrating the poise and sensuality she carried so effortlessly.

the neckline—off the shoulder—draped with the finest tulle, sheer as mist, floated just above her arms. 

across the bodice, lace embroidery bloomed in intricate patterns—each stitch hand-sewn, each glinting under the golden lights like frost under moonlight.

the gown flared subtly at her thighs, the skirt falling into a dramatic train that swept behind her like a whispered secret. the silk gleamed with each step, the fabric shifting and catching the light like liquid silver.

a high slit along her right leg served not just for movement, but for allure—sensual glimpses of flawless skin with every stride, a flash of leg, a flicker of defiance, a reminder of her beauty. 

but the crowning glory was what trailed behind her: the veil.

it extended far beyond the hem of her train, an ethereal cloud of lace-trimmed tulle, sheer as breath and just as fleeting. it moved like smoke, caught the air like silk spun from dreams.

and in that moment, the entire look—dress, veil, diamonds, her—spoke a language that needed no translation. wealth. power. devotion. desire. all woven into fabric and form.

because she’s minatozaki sana.

untouchable. adorned. irrevocably promised.

and when she finally began to walk, jihyo could hardly breathe.

grace incarnated. beauty that felt like punishment.

sana glided forward, hand resting on her father’s arm, veil catching the air with each step, billowing gently behind her like a blessing.

and nothing—absolutely nothing—else in the world mattered.

⸻

the ceremony had held its breath.

soft petals fell like whispers along the aisle as a breeze slipped through the open archways. the guests had long faded into a blur, the world outside this moment folding in, until it was only you and sana, and the space between your hands.

you could feel her pulse in her fingertips.

the officiant smiled gently, stepping back, giving the moment to you.

“you may share your vows.”

you turned to face her fully.

and then there was nothing else.

no sound.

no movement.

just her.

your bride.

her eyes locked with yours, impossibly steady. like she was holding your soul still.

you exhaled slowly, a quiet tremor behind your breath, and unfolded the paper with hands that shook more than you wanted to admit.

“sana,” you began, voice low, unsure if it was prayer or promise. “there’s a version of this where i start with poetry. where i tell you that you’re the sun, or the sea, or something just as inevitable.”

a faint laugh from her lips—fond, watery.

“but the truth is… you’re not like the sun. you’re not something i watched from afar. you’re the warmth i felt when you sat right next to me in the lecture you were almost two hours late for, the first time you looked at me like i belonged somewhere.”

you glanced down for only a heartbeat, then back at her, eyes tender.

“you always say ‘i’m minatozaki sana, and minatozaki sana always get what she wants.’ and i believed you. how could i not? you walked into my life like it was a runway and said my name like it was a possession you’d been meaning to reclaim.”

her lips trembled.

“and i think… i was already yours then. before i even said hello.”

you could feel her breathing through your own chest. steady. deep.

“i’ve spent my whole life building walls. keeping the world at a polite distance. but you—god, you knocked so gently. you never demanded entry. you waited at the edge of everything i didn’t know how to say, and you waited. you stayed.”

you paused, letting the silence settle.

“and somewhere along the way, your laughter became the sound i needed to fall asleep. your voice, the one i waited for at the end of every long day. your hands, the only place that ever felt like home. you are my noise, my silence, my problem, my solution, my worry, my prayer, my answer.”

your voice caught, just slightly.

“i will never forget what it felt like to be seen by you. i will love you boundlessly in the quiet, in the chaos, in the inevitable ache of time. i will choose you, every morning, every night, even in the spaces between who we are and who we’re still becoming.”

you stepped closer, so close your foreheads nearly touched.

“i vow to love you like it’s the only thing i’ve ever been sure of. because it is.”

you didn’t say ‘i love you’—you didn’t have to.

every word had already said it.

the room didn’t dare breathe.

sana took her paper next. her fingers curled around it like it held more than words—like it held weight, and truth, and years of waiting.

but she didn’t read from it.

she folded it slowly, delicately, and handed it back to myoui mina—her maid of honour, also her best friend from japan—not once looking away from you.

“i had something written,” she whispered, voice already thick. “but you always make me forget how to speak properly.”

a small smile tugged at your lips. it was genuine.

“i’m just going to speak straight from the heart.”

sana inhaled, eyes brimming, lips parting as if her heart was speaking before her mouth could.

“you terrify me,” she whispered. “not because i doubt you. not because i don’t trust you. but because you love me so well it’s hard to believe this isn’t a dream i’ll wake up from.”

her voice wavered, barely above the hush of the wind threading through the garden.

“before you, love was something that flickered. something that had to be begged for, bargained with. something i thought i’d always have to chase. but you—you made it quiet. you made it gentle. you made it mine.”

her lashes were heavy with tears she hadn’t yet let fall.

“i used to say i always get what i want,” she laughed, just barely, shaking her head. “but the truth is, i never knew how to want something this much. you were never just a want—you were a longing that lived in my bones long before i had the words for it, and so i could never love you in the shadows when all i wanted was to be yours in front of the world.”

your hands found hers again—anchoring her. her voice steadied.

“you’re the only person who’s ever seen all of me and didn’t flinch. didn’t walk away. you saw the best of me and didn’t place me on a pedestal, and you saw the worst and didn’t run. you stayed. you loved me anyway. no—because of it.”

you could feel every word threading itself into you like silk pulled through skin.

“y/n, i vow to never stop learning the language of your heart. i vow to be soft with you when the world is hard. to be loud when your voice shakes. to be quiet when you need stillness. i vow to meet you where you are—always. in your joy. in your grief. in your becoming.”

sana was crying now, but she didn’t look away.

“i vow to love you like it’s the first day i saw you and the last breath i’ll take—at the same time. i vow to make this love so certain, even time will know to bow its head.”

the officiant did not rush you. the moment was sacred, suspended in time.

the weight of her words settled into your chest, warm and aching and undeniable.

and then—

“i now pronounce you as wife and wife. you may now kiss the bride.”

but you didn’t rush.

one of sana’s hands cup your face like she was learning the curve of your cheek, still reverent whilst the other meets your nape.

and when your lips finally met hers, it was not a kiss of fireworks or fanfare—it was a promise. quiet, deep, breathless, infinite.

the guests erupted around you.

but sana’s arm stays wrapped around you, fingers brushing your cheek lightly, forehead pressed to yours, as if you were still alone in a world made only for two.

and across the room, jihyo presses her hand hard over her mouth.

she had never heard you speak like that.

never been loved like that.

and never, not even once, had she believed someone would look at you the way sana just did—like you were sacred, like you were hers.

and the truth is, you had been sana’s for forever. 

⸻

the reception hums with the soft sounds of silverware on china, of low laughter and clinking glasses. the lights are dimmed just enough to feel like a hush, a breath held in reverence. chandeliers glint like captured stars, and every table is dressed in linen and candlelight.

your parents stand slowly—your mother’s fingers wrapped around her wine glass like she needs something to hold onto, your father slipping an arm around her waist. they glance at each other first, sharing a look that only decades of quiet devotion can forge. then she clears her throat gently, a smile already tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“i’ll try not to cry,” she begins, and the guests chuckle, fond and already endeared.

“we’ve always known our daughter was… something else. she came into the world screaming, and never quite learned how to do things softly. stubborn. headstrong. painfully intelligent and ever so wise.” she pauses, and your father nudges her affectionately with his elbow. “a little difficult, if we’re honest.”

another ripple of laughter, gentle, affectionate.

“but when she left for london, for oxford,” your father says, picking up seamlessly, “we watched her walk through that departure gate with her spine straight and her jaw set, and we knew—she was going to make something of herself. and she did. my god, she did. she called us when she could, answered when she wanted to—”

“—which wasn’t often,” your mother interjects—and she sees it. jihyo sees it. a flash of embarrassment, shame, regret in your eyes. 

“—but every time we heard her voice, there was a strength there. a steel. and still—still—there was a part of her that was far away. closed off. like her heart had built walls we didn’t know how to breach anymore.”

jihyo watches them speak, a glass of untouched champagne in her hand, her eyes fixed to the floor. her heart echoes with those words—because she had known that version of you, too. unreachable. unreadable.

“and then one day,” your mother continues, voice softening into something reverent, “in the spring of her final year, she facetimed us. and she was different. lighter. we could barely get a word out of her—not because she was guarded, but because she was smiling. blushing. giddy in a way we hadn’t seen since she was a child.”

your father smiles like he can see that exact moment in his mind. “we asked what she wanted to talk about. she said ‘nothing, really.’ but every time she spoke, she said sana’s name. didn’t even tell us who sana was and just what sana meant to her. but she said sana’s name. more than once. and every time she said sana’s name, she lit up.”

a pause. the silence blooms warm and full around the name. jihyo’s breath stills.

“when she came home to us after graduation,” your mother says, her voice catching slightly, “she brought someone with her. she brought a young woman who said thank you when she didn’t need to, who cleaned the dishes before we’d even thought to do it ourselves. who sat beside us and listened, listened to our stories from when we were young and stupid, and somehow made us feel like our words mattered. like we mattered.”

jihyo blinks down at her lap. there had been a moment, during the rehearsal dinner at her own wedding, when sana had offered to refill her water. it hadn’t meant anything—shouldn’t have meant anything. but the way she’d looked at her, like she already knew how tired jihyo was, how overwhelmed—it had stuck.

“we knew then,” your father says, “that sana had been part of our family long before today.”

“she saw parts of our daughter we thought had been lost to the world,” your mother adds, her voice now thick with tears. “and somehow, without trying, she brought them back. we didn’t just gain a daughter-in-law. we gained the person who taught our child how to love out loud.”

the hall is quiet now. not a breath misplaced.

jihyo’s hands curl around the stem of her glass, cold against her palm. all she can think about is the version of you she never got to keep—the one who she used to call but wouldn’t answer, too busy studying in her room in oxford. the version she held on to while you were slipping away. and how, despite all her wanting, it had just never been enough to soften you.

but sana had.

your parents raise their glasses together. “to our daughter,” your mother says. “and to sana, an official member of the family, who found y/n’s heart and gave it a home.”

the room lifts their glasses. there’s a swell of warmth, of cheers and soft laughter. and jihyo smiles, too—polite, perfect—but it doesn’t touch her eyes. because her heart feels like it’s crumpling, soft and sharp all at once.

because she knows now, irrevocably—

you were never unreachable.

you were just waiting for the right hands to open you.

⸻

the powder room hums with stillness.

not the stillness of peace—no. the kind born from breath held too long. the kind laced with the perfume of restraint. the air is warm with candlelight and sharper things, gold light pressing soft shadows across cool marble and velvet benches. silence curls like a wick waiting to be lit.

jihyo is already inside.

she sits like she’s been waiting years. back straight. jaw locked. hands laced in her lap as though prayer could change the shape of memory. her eyes are fixed on the mirror, but they see nothing. not really.

until the door opens.

and sana steps in.

barefoot, heels in one hand, skin kissed warm with leftover heat. her lipstick is half-faded, her hair just barely mussed, her breath a little too short. her dress--that was left down and curled for the reception, a piece by either oh her ears brought back and pinned with some flowers--clings like it’s been held. her perfume is threaded with something softer—you.

she walks to the mirror. sets down her clutch. pulls out her lipstick.

“you look used.”

sana freezes.

her eyes lift. calm. sharp.

“and you look desperate,” sana shrugs. “i’m just loved, jihyo. how long have you been waiting in here?”

“you’re touched. you’re accessible,” jihyo corrects. “and i’ve been here long enough to watch you stumble in here like you’ve been ruined.”

“i have,” sana sighs, reminiscing on how you made her unravel minutes ago, applying her lipstick. “beautifully. she’s very good with her hands, mouth, you know, all that.”

jihyo exhales and stands, slow and measured before crossing her arms. “i didn’t know you liked putting on shows. that too, at a wedding.”

“it wasn’t a show. it was private. and also, in case you’ve forgotten, it’s my wedding—you know, the whole sana weds y/n?.”

“it was a hallway.”

“you should’ve looked away.” sana shrugs, unbothered. 

“i couldn’t.”

the air tightens.

“you think this is love?” jihyo spits. “pressed up against a wall before dinner’s even cold?”

“yes,” sana says. “because it’s mutual. because it’s real. because when she touches me, she doesn’t hesitate.”

“she hesitated with me,” jihyo says. “she used to.”

“and you let her.”

jihyo crosses the room in one quiet step. “you think you’re better for her?”

“no,” sana murmurs. “i think i chose her. loudly. clearly. and she chose me back.”

“she used to look at me like i was everything.”

“and you did nothing with it.”

“you don’t know what i did.”

“then tell me,” sana says. “tell me what you did when she laughed like the world was soft again. when she bit her lip like she was trying not to say your name. when she sat next to you and hoped. what did you do?”

“i wanted her.”

“not enough.”

“i wanted her,” jihyo says again, louder, cracking. “i wanted her when i wasn’t allowed to. i wanted her when i was beside someone else. i wanted her so much it made me mean. so much i had to pretend not to.”

her voice breaks. “i used to stare at her mouth and wonder what she’d sound like gasping. i used to lie awake and imagine what it would feel like to have her pressed against me. i wanted her every second of every day. and i thought if i said it out loud, everything would fall apart.”

“you didn’t say it,” sana replies. “and it fell apart anyway.”

“i didn’t say anything because i couldn’t! i was her brother’s fiancée—i was supposed to be loyal—“

sana laughs. “loyal? you weren’t loyal. you were cowardly.”

jihyo’s flinches and tires to recover. her mouth opens. then shuts, her hands trembling.

“she waited for you,” sana says. “and when you said nothing, she stopped waiting.”

“i gave her everything i could.”

“no. you gave her fragments.”

“i gave her my silence,” jihyo breathes. “because i didn’t know how to say her name without trembling.”

sana’s voice softens—cruel only in truth. “and i gave her the sound of it said out loud.”

“you think she doesn’t remember? wonder? you think she doesn’t think about me anymore?”

“maybe she does,” sana replies. “but not the way she thinks about me.”

jihyo laughs once—sharp, hurt. “you think she’s never compared us?”

“i hope she does.” sana says. 

jihyo’s throat tightens. 

“because the difference is,” she continues. “i never made her question if she was enough. and she told me the once, when you looked at her, it felt as if you were searching for something just out of your reach. like you needed her to be easier. quieter. less.” jihyo’s throat tightens. 

“but when she looks at me, and when i look at her,” sana whispers. “it’s not searching, it’s certain.”

a loud silence. 

“she looks at me like she already knows,” sana smirks. “like she’s already home. and that, jihyo, is how she knew.”

“how she knew what?”

“that you were her ache. and i’m her ease.”

jihyo breathes hard.

“you made her feel like a question,” sana says. “i make her feel like an answer.”

silence. thick. heavy.

then jihyo says, low, “you think you know how she touches.”

“i do,” sana whispers. “i know how she touches when she’s trying to hold herself together. when she’s soft with need. or when she’s trembling on top of me and whispering my name like it’s home.”

“you think sex makes you permanent.”

“no,” sana says. “but staying makes me unforgettable.”

“you think she’s never missed me?”

“i think she used to miss what you might’ve been.”

jihyo steps closer. “you don’t know how i looked at her.”

“but i know how she looks at me.”

jihyo’s voice turns brittle. “and how is that?”

“like she’s sure. like i’m hers. like she’s never needed to question it.”

the silence bruises.

and then—

your voice. from just outside the door.

“sana?”

sana turns. body softens. eyes steady.

“yeah?”

a pause.

“what are you doing?”

“fixing my lipstick, dress—my appearance.” sana laughs. 

and so do you. 

“i’m sorry, just the thought of me being your wife and you being my wife was enough to make me forget about our surroundings. and not to mention, but you just look so beautiful today—and don’t get me wrong, you always are the most breathtaking person in the room all the time—but knowing you’re wearing that gown for me, all dolled up for me, i couldn’t help it.”

sana giggles giddily and it makes the pit in jihyo’s stomach--formed from your words--even worse. 

“anyway,” you continue, brushing over your little speech. “is it okay if you hurry?”

quieter, you add—“i miss you.”

jihyo doesn’t move.

sana answers, gentle, certain. “i’ll be right there, baby, just give me a sec.”

“okay, i’ll see you back at the table, then?"

"mmh," is what sana lets out when she winks at jihyo, lips curving into a victorious smirk. “i love you, baby.” 

"i love you, so much, sana."

and when the door closes, sana turns back one last time.

“she may have used to look at you,” sana says. “but when she looks at me, it’s not a maybe. it’s not a wish. it’s now. it’s yes.”

a breath.

“she lets me come undone in her arms. and i let her hold all the pieces. and she stays.”

a beat.

then—soft. cruel only because it’s true—

“tell me, jihyo…”

a whisper.

“…did she ever ask you if you could give her one more?”

and then sana walks to the door.

because you’re waiting.

and this time—

she has nothing left to prove.

⸻

epilogue:

the sky is the colour of apricots—sunset dripping down over the hills, brushing everything in a soft gold glow. it settles on shoulders and half-full wine glasses, dances through strands of hair, clings to linen napkins like it wants to stay a little longer.

the garden hums. laughter folds into birdsong. someone’s playing music low from a speaker tucked behind flowerpots. the scent of woodsmoke and basil, charred peaches and sugar-dusted fruit lingers in the air like memory.

it’s been a year.

one year since you stood beside sana and said yes in front of the world. and now—this is celebration, not spectacle. no aisle. no altar. no announcements. just closeness. love made visible in slow gestures and unsaid things.

one year ago today, you stood before her in silk and white and said yes with every bone in your body. and tonight—there are no centrepieces, no stages, no aisles. just the people who matter, the light that stays, and the love that never left.

sana is beside you, barefoot in the grass, a halo of dusk and soft skin. her hair pinned up in petals though a few wisps have escaped—kissed by the breeze. her dress brushing her ankles. she keeps tucking herself into your side like she doesn’t know how not to. you’ve kissed her at least a hundred times today, and it’s still not enough.

but not everyone here is held.

between your brother and your mother—too visible to disappear, too well-mannered to run—

jihyo.

her mouth doesn’t move much. her wineglass sweats in her hand. her eyes, when they lift, always find you.

and you—you don’t see her anymore. not the way she aches to be seen.

but she watches.

every glance. every laugh. every moment you lean into sana like there’s no other gravity left.

your mother’s voice breaks through the hum—sweet and proud, her glass raised mid-sentence. she speaks about how you used to seem so far away. how she hadn’t seen you soft in years. until sana. until the girl with the laugh like warm wind and the patience of someone who understood.

your father adds something, not much—he never says more than he has to. “you came back to us,” he says. “and she’s the reason.”

sana glances down, trying not to cry.

your brother tells a story about how stubborn you were growing up, an attempt to embarrass you so you can’t see the tears forming in his eyes. how no one ever made you lose track of time—until sana. how your voice changed when you said her name.

and then someone calls out—

a speech from the couple.

you and sana both freeze for a second. 

a split second of a shared look.

you stand up. 

and the hush that follows is soft. reverent.

you don’t look at the crowd. just her.

“sana once told me—actually, she’s said it multiple times to multiple different people—but she said that minatozaki sana always gets what she wants,” you begin and laughter ripples through the garden—knowing, affectionate. “and i didn’t know if she was being cocky or honest. but either way—she was right, as usual.”

laughter. warm.

“i was halfway hers before i even knew what was happening. not because she asked. not because she chased. but because she saw me—and stayed.”

sana’s lips curve. you keep going.

“before her, love was something quiet. something painful. something i held between my teeth and dared not name. love wasn’t something to keep, for me. it was a moment. a maybe. a door only opened halfway.”

jihyo’s flinches—but no one sees.

your voice steadies. 

“but sana… she knocked. and waited. and when i opened it, she didn’t rush in. she didn’t demand. she just… smiled. like she knew i’d been waiting too. she made it easy. not simple. not perfect. but clear.”

sana’s eyes shimmer.

you turn to her. 

“you didn’t demand anything from me. you didn’t make me guess. you didn’t wait until i was halfway gone to say what you felt.”

your voice doesn’t falter—not once.

“you taught me that love isn’t a reward. it’s a return. and sana, you—you—have returned to me every single day since.”

you pause, just long enough for it to land.

“you never made me feel like i had to earn you. you made me feel like i was already enough. like you were always waiting for me to realise it. and when i did—you were there. already reaching.”

jihyo shifts. her knuckles pale.

“i have loved you every second since. loudly. without shame. without pause. and i will love you in every second after this.”

you turn to the crowd. 

“sana taught me that love doesn’t need to be dramatic to be real. that it doesn’t have to ache to prove itself. that sometimes love is just—someone turning to you in the dark and saying i’m here. i’m not leaving.”

you breathe.

“i never had to explain myself to her. never had to earn her. never had to wonder. she chose me in a way that made every person who didn’t—irrelevant.”

jihyo’s hand tightens around her glass.

“and every day since, she’s chosen me again. softly. loudly. always. and i’ll never stop choosing her back.”

people cheer for you before chanting sana’s name.

and as you make your way back to where you had been previously sitting, sana stands up and presses her lips to yours, gently, like you’re passing something sacred by your lips, eyes shutting to stop more tears from flowing. 

a breath. a moment.

“many have called me something similar to sunshine,” she begins. “bright. warm. the kind of girl who lit up a room.”

she smiles—but it’s distant. knowing. 

“what they didn’t ask is how often that light came at the cost of burning. how much i wanted to be kept—not admired. not observed. not silent. not a pause between decisions. not almost chosen.” 

jihyo’s jaw tenses.

“i’ve been wanted,” sana says, “but never named. i’ve been held like a secret and kissed like a mistake.”

a silence follows.

“and then you, y/n,” she turns to you now, “you looked at me with both eyes open. and never once made me wonder.”

her voice softens—but her words sharpen.

“you didn’t wait until i was leaving to love me. you didn’t want me in silence. you didn’t place me in a corner of your life and ask me to stay small.”

jihyo stares at her lap. the wineglass trembles.

“you never made me feel like a risk. or a complication. or a shame.”

sana breathes in—steady.

“some people hold on with half-closed fists, hoping time will make the decision for them. some people choose quiet over truth. safety over clarity.”

she doesn’t look at jihyo.

she doesn’t need to.

“but you—you chose me out loud.”

your fingers meet hers again beneath the table.

“you made me real. permanent. not just something easy to love when the lights were off. you brought me into the sun. and for the first time, it didn’t burn.”

she’s crying now—but she doesn’t flinch.

“so thank you,” she finishes, voice breaking, “for not looking away, for not choosing silence. keeping me in the shadows. for making me your only. for giving me a place where my love doesn’t have to be quiet. for never making me feel like something you had to question.”

the garden applauds. but not everyone claps.

jihyo doesn’t blink, instead, barely breathes.

but sana isn’t done.

“i am yours,” she says. “loudly. clearly. completely. and i always will be.”

the applause rises.

but not everyone claps.

jihyo’s hands don’t move.

jihyo sits, still and splintered. surrounded by the sound of everything she never said. every breath in her chest feels too sharp. every glance toward you—toward her—lands like an echo.

she sits in the middle of the noise, surrounded by warmth she cannot touch. by light she cannot bear. by the woman she never chose, and the one who was chosen instead.

the moment passes.

but it stays inside her.

and all she can do is watch.

because there is no more almost.

no more maybe.

only this—

the clarity she never gave you.

the love you found without her.

the home you built with someone else.

and she cannot look away.

and she realises—

you were never hers.

not really.

because she never chose you.

not when it counted.

but sana did.

and you let her. 

[tttwiceeluvrr]

Me checking on one of my beloved ao3 fics that hasn't been updated since 2017